


Beat the Bastards

by Annaelle



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: ALL THE TRIGGER WARNINGS, Antisemitism, Auschwitz-Birkenau, Boys In Love, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Cold War, Death, Different languages, Embedded Images, Friendship, Gen, Getting Together, Holocaust, Human Experimentation, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Inspired by Art, M/M, Mercy Killing, Nazis, Red Room (Marvel), Slow Burn, Super Soldier Serum, The Author Regrets Everything, The Author Regrets Nothing, Translations will be added at the bottom of each chapter, World War II, Xenophobia, Young Bucky Barnes, caprbb2019, trigger warning, young Steve rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-20 22:55:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19386172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annaelle/pseuds/Annaelle
Summary: "For the dead and the living, we must bear witness." — Elie Wiesel“Okay,” Bucky said, the word coming out slowly and carefully. “Are we friends then?”Steve looked at him carefully and then nodded, deciding that he should very much like to have a friend, because he’d never really had one before, and Bucky seemed like he was fun. “Best friends.”—Steve Rogers is three years old when he is first given Erskine's supersoldier serum. He is five years old when Hydra finds him and takes him to Auschwitz-Birkenau. Bucky Barnes is six when he and his sister witness the brutal murder of their people, when Nazis take them and give them to Uncle Mengele. He is six when he meets Steve Rogers and he /knows/. They're seven and eight when Auschwitz is liberated and the Russians find them.They are seven and eight when they learn that sometimes, justice does not exist.What if Steve and Bucky didn't grow up on the American side of the conflict?STUCKY CAPRBB2019—AU—THE BOYS ARE BORN 20 YEARS LATER—STEVE GETS THE SERUM AS A KID—ZOLA IS A DICK—SO IS MENGELE—AND SCHMIDT—AND KARPOV





	1. Preface

**Author's Note:**

  * For [verbalatte](https://archiveofourown.org/users/verbalatte/gifts).



> Hi everyone! 
> 
> Welcome to my contribution to this year's CapRBB :) I was lucky enough to claim a gorgeous image by the wonderful Verbalatte, and to get so inspired it spawned this little monster. 
> 
> Before you begin, I would like to remind you to please read the tags. There are a lot, I know, but they're there for a reason, and this fic has some pretty dark moments and themes. Because it also deals with the Holocaust and the persecution of Jews, Romani and all those that didn't fit within the vision of Arian perfection, I have added quotes by people who survived this horror to the beginning of each chapter.
> 
> I have let their experiences guide my hand in writing this, and I hope it will aid in making sure we never forget the atrocities that were committed. 
> 
> Secondly, I want to assure you that there are happy, soft moments in this fic too. It is not as dark as it appears initially, but there ARE dark moments—fortunately, the boys remember to turn on the light, every now and then. ;) 
> 
> I want to extend a huge thank-you to my darling beta Juulna, without whom I would never have been able to finish this fic. I love you 3000, doll. <3 A thank-you also for Verbalatte, for creating the hauntingly beautiful art that inspired this fic, and to the CapRBB mods, who made this all possible. 
> 
> That's all, folks! 
> 
> The rest will be uploaded tomorrow, when it is done being torn apart by Juulna ;D 
> 
> Love, Annaelle
> 
> PS Translations are provided at the bottom of the chapter!

# Beat the Bastards

**“I had to fight all my life to survive.  
They were all against me... but I beat the bastards and left them in the ditch.” **

**—Ty Cobb**

———

 

## Preface

**“By default, most of us have taken the dare to simply survive. Exist. Get through. For the most part, we live numb to life – we’ve grown weary and apathetic and jaded… and wounded.”**

**—Ann Voskamp**

**———**

**Auschwitz-Birkenau, Poland**  
**October 1942**  
 **Sarah Rogers**

Sarah sat on the floor in her dank little cell, staring at the fragile pages Dr. Zola had given her, filled with notes on all that she remembered of Abraham’s research. She had written as much as she could, as fast as she could. She ignored the sense of dread that grew in the pit of her stomach, and she most certainly ignored the way she stained the threadbare fabric of her tunic with tiny specks of blood every time she coughed into her sleeve.

She had sworn, initially, to never betray the faith Abraham had put in her, and she had intended to keep that promise until the day God called her back to his side.

Abraham had aided her in becoming a nurse, and had provided her with food and board and honest, good work when no one else wanted to take a chance upon a widowed mother of a sickly child, and she owed him more than she could ever say. She knew, however, that he would not begrudge her the choice she made now, and that he would not be angry with her for choosing her son’s life over her pledge.

She knew, as did Abraham, she was certain, that she would have kept her promise, if not for the dangerous rattle that had taken up residence in Steve’s lungs during their transport from Abraham’s home in Nouvion, France to Auschwitz, Poland. She would have taken Abraham’s secrets to the grave, if not for the tiniest specks of blood that left her boy’s lips when he coughed, and the way his eyes had gone bright and glossy with fever.

He had not truly been ill since the first time Abraham had given him an injection of bright blue liquid when he had been three—something he had chosen to call _livsblod_ , for reasons he had not confided in her—but he was not invulnerable, and the journey to Poland had been long and hazardous.

Her son had always been a small, sickly child, born with the heart of a lion.

Abraham had, likely, saved his life.

Sarah had not believed him, initially, when he had told her that he was developing something that could cure all ills, that would take a great person and make them even better. She had made sure to raise her little Steven to be the best man that he could possibly be, to teach him to never judge another without learning all the facts, and to never let anyone beat him down.

 _“Remember, darling,”_ she had told him once, after the Nazis had come to their house, after they had killed Abraham and beaten Sarah until she could barely stand. _“We always get back up_.”

It’d been before they’d been taken here, to this… this _purgatory_ , this _hell_ on Earth.

Her little boy… Her little boy had taken those words to heart, and Sarah almost wished that she could take them back, that she could tell her boy that sometimes, it wasn’t quite that black and white, and it wasn’t quite as simple as she would like it to be.

Almost.

It broke her heart to see how he struggled, how he _tried_ , how he _fought_ , even though he was so sick and hurt, but at age eight, her boy was stronger and braver than any grown man she had ever known.

She _hated_ that she might not be there to help him further.

She could help Zola cure her son, possibly, and ensure that he would live, but she feared God would call her to his side before she would see Steve healthy again.

A deep, painful cough overtook her, and she gasped for breath, turning her head into the crook of her elbow as much as she could. When she managed to catch her breath, she ignored the bright red blood that spotted her sleeve now, and returned her attention to the notes she had written.

Just a little more.

Just a little bit more.

————

 **Bessarabia, Romania**  
**March 1943**  
 **Winifred Barnes**

If there was one thing Winifred Barnes had learned during her relationship with Gheorghe, it was to not question the wisdom of some of the _bătrâni_. They had warned Gheorghe he would lose his heart when he left for Scotland, that he would not return as the same man who had left—they had not been wrong.

Gheorghe had met her, and they had fallen deeply in love very quickly, and though many questioned her sanity, Winifred had wanted nothing more than to marry Gheorghe.

She had not cared that her parents refused to give their approval, had cared so little about the judgement of those in her little town, and had absolutely refused to settle down with anyone else. She had pledged her heart to Gheorghe, and she firmly believed it had been the right choice to make. When they had been turned away by her family, shunned for engaging in a relationship that God would surely never endorse, she had followed him back to Romania, her belly swelling larger with their children each day.

The twins had been born here, in the land that had birthed their father, and though Winifred missed her beloved Scotland very much, she, too, had grown to love Romania as she loved her family.

In recent years, though, she had begun to wonder if they should not consider returning to her own country. Germany advanced through Europe swiftly, taking everything it desired, and killing all those it found lacking—her husband’s people were, unfortunately, amongst those found lacking.

She did not wish to leave the _clachans_ that had taken her in when her own family had abandoned her, but she did not wish to see her children harmed for simply being born to a Romani father. She was not certain how far Germany’s arm reached, but she _knew_ that Great Britain had not fallen to its insistent attacks, and if Great Britain still stood, then so would Scotland.

She _had_ spoken of it with Gheorghe, briefly, and had even consulted with the _bătrâni_. They’d insisted they wait, pleaded for them to not abandon their family yet, that they let fate guide them.

She wished she had not listened.

If she had not listened, if she had insisted, she would not be forced to watch, helpless, as the men who had barged into their camp in the dead of night, dressed in dark fabrics and carrying more weapons than Winnie had ever seen in her entire life, dragged people from their tents by their hair, kicking and screaming, before unceremoniously shooting them.

She cried, struggled and fought, kicking against the hands that held her down, because these bastards hadn’t found her babies yet, and as long as they hadn’t, she would keep fighting to get away, to get to her babies before these men would, before they—

Horror overcame her when she witnessed a man drag her husband out from behind a tent, and she barely got the chance to _scream_ , to _beg_ , before the man unceremoniously put his gun to Gheorghe’s head and pulled the trigger. “No,” she sobbed, as Gheorghe’s limp form slumped to the ground, resuming her struggle against the hands that held her still, “no, please, _no_.”

She _screamed_ when a small form appeared behind one of the tents, throwing itself at the man who had robbed her husband of his life, screaming, “ _Nu! Tată! Mi-ai rănit tatăl!”_

“Rebecca,” Winifred cried, jerking forward, “baby, _no_!”

“ _Taci_!” The man holding her back spat, shaking her roughly, and she was forced to watch as the man shook off her baby easily, aiming the gun that had killed her husband at her baby girl, even as a second small form appeared, screeching angrily, diving in front of Becca immediately.

“No!” Winifred screamed. “No! _Stop_! They’re _twins_! _Ei sunt gemeni!_ ”

The men paused, and she exhaled shakily, _relieved,_ because at least the man wasn’t pointing his gun directly at her babies anymore.

They’d heard rumors that the Germans had strict orders to capture all twins, without harming them, months ago, and the information had stuck in the back of her mind—she didn’t know what it _meant_ , what they would _do_ , but at least they wouldn’t _kill_ her babies.

“ _Gemeni_?” the man holding her repeated. “You _lie_ , _curvă_ _romani.”_

“No,” she sobbed, held upright only by his tight, unrelenting grip on her hair now. “No, I swear, they’re twins. Look at them, you’ll see.”

“She’s right,” the man who’d shot her husband said, kneeling before the twins to get a good look at them. “They’re too alike to be normal siblings. We have to take them back.” One of the men who’d run over at the commotion, who’d grasped her children and hoisted them up so they were dangling in the men’s tight grip on their upper arms, grumbled something so quietly Winnie couldn’t hear it, but she got the feeling she wouldn’t like what he had to say much anyway.

“ _Spune_ _la_ _revedere_ ,” the man holding her hissed. “You’ve given us a great gift. I’ll grant you the same.”

Winnie swallowed, desperately fighting back the tears that threatened to burst forth as she looked at her babies. Becca—her strong, indomitable, gorgeous little Becca—was struggling futilely, kicking at the man that held her, wriggling in his grasp, while Bucky—her beautiful, brave, sensitive little Bucky—stared at her with wide, teary eyes. “Go with them,” she said quietly, her voice trembling. “Be good for me, sweethearts. You’re going to be okay.”

“ _Mamă_ ,” Bucky whined. “I don’t _want_ to. I don’t _wanna_ go without you.”

Winifred sobbed dryly, forcing herself to smile at her baby, because she didn’t want the last memory he had of her to be of her crying. “I’m _always_ with you, _iubit_. And your _tată_ too. Now you have to be brave, okay? You have to be brave for me, _iubit_. Can you do that for _mamă_?”

Bucky nodded, tears running down his cheeks, his lower lip trembling. “Okay, _mamă.”_ Becca nodded too, less teary than her brother, but shaken too, Winifred could tell.

“I love you, sweethearts,” she said shakily. “I love you _so much_.”

She could feel the cold metal of the gun rest against the back of her head and winced, trying to turn in the man’s grip a little, to _look_ at him, to force him to _see_ who he was killing. “Please,” she pleaded. “Please, not in front of them. Take them away first.”

He must have nodded, because the two men holding her babies started dragging the children away, ignoring their wailing and their cries, and Winifred’s heart _broke_. She kept her eyes on them for as long she could, until they disappeared into the dark, and the metal of the gun came to rest against her head again.

She exhaled shakily, and closed her eyes.

“ _Ar n-Athair a tha air nèahm_ ,” she whispered, “ _Gu naomhaichea_ —”

————

 

 

 

 

**Translations**

 

 

**Romanian**

| 

**English**  
  
---|---  
  
**_Nu! Tată! Mi-ai rănit tatăl!_**

| 

No! Daddy! You hurt my daddy!  
  
**_Tată_**

| 

Daddy  
  
**_soră_**

| 

Sister  
  
**_Mamă_**

| 

Mama  
  
**_Clachans_**

| 

Tribe/Family  
  
**_Bătrâni_**

| 

Elders  
  
**Taci**

| 

Shut up  
  
**_Ei sunt gemeni_**

| 

They’re twins  
  
**_Curvă_ _romani_**

| 

Romani whore  
  
**_Spune_ _la_ _revedere_**

| 

Say goodbye  
  
**_Iubit_**

| 

Darling  
  
 

**Scottish Gaelic**

| 

**English**  
  
---|---  
  
**Ar n-Athair a tha air nèahm**

| 

Our Father who art in heaven  
  
**Gu naomhaichea(r d’ainm)**

| 

Hallowed be thy name


	2. Chapter One

## Chapter One

**“Never shall I forget the little faces of the children, whose bodies turned into wreaths of smoke beneath a silent blue sky.”**

**—Elie Wiesel**

**Auschwitz-Birkenau, Poland**  
**January 1944**  
 **Bucky Barnes**

The room he’d been brought to was so very small that he could stretch out his arms wide and touch the wall on each side. It was, however, cleaner than anywhere he had ever lived before, and the bunkbed that stood propped against the wall opposite the door looked like it had _real_ mattresses and blankets.

Bucky hadn’t slept under a real blanket in three years.

He could barely remember the feel of it at all.

He could barely remember _anything_ before life in the barracks with the other twins, before they’d been brought here, before the men that had taken him and Rebecca had killed _tată_ , _mamă_ and the rest of their _ne-am_. It was not that it had been very long—Bucky did not think they had been with Uncle Mengele very long at all, for his hair had barely grown at all, and he was not very much taller than he had been when the _nazist_ had taken them.

He stood in the new little room for a long moment, blinking wetly at the sight of the blankets before he turned his gaze towards the door. It was the first time he had been alone… _ever_. Rebecca had _always_ been there, and when she had not, _mamă_ or _tată_ had been.

After… _after_. It had been him and Rebecca, always.

They had been given their own bunkbed, and clean clothes, and they hadn’t had to cut their hair at all. At first, Bucky had thought the _nazist_ had brought them to someone who would _save_ them. He had hoped that Uncle Mengele was a man who worked against the Germans from within, like the heroes in the tales his mother had told him about many a time.

He had known he was mistaken the very first time he had walked towards the latrine at the back of the barrack. Bucky had no words for what he had seen—had no words that could describe how very _frightened_ he had been when he had seen the bodies of several children on the ground, face-down in filth and dirt, pale and unmoving, as though they had simply fallen where they stood.

He saw them still, every day, when he shut his eyes.

It had not been the first time he had seen a dead person. When he had been little, one of their _bătrâni_  had passed, and _mamă_ had allowed Bucky to see her, to kiss her forehead and say a prayer to ask for the Lord to take their _bătrân_ into heaven with him, so she may be reunited with her _[soţ](https://en.bab.la/dictionary/romanian-english/so%C5%A3)_, who had passed away long before Bucky and Rebecca had been born.

It _had_ been the first time he had seen so many dead.

He had crawled into Rebecca’s bed with her, after he had said prayers for each of the children that lay on the filthy floor, abandoned and forgotten, and cried until he had no tears left, and swore that he would not let Rebecca become one of the children on the floor.

They would _live_.

Tears burned in his eyes now, as he recalled how he had broken that vow, and how terribly he had betrayed his _soră_. His beloved _soră,_ who had been brave and strong, and ultimately unable to beat what Uncle Mengele had given her, who had shaken and cried in Bucky’s arms, and pleaded for _mamă_ and _tată,_ for Bucky, for _anyone_ to make the pain stop.

She had been so much braver than he.

Bucky had pleaded.

He had begged and screamed and cried, had refused to stop screaming for Uncle Mengele until the man saw them, until he’d _save_ Rebecca, because Bucky could not _breathe_ without his _soră,_ his _geamăn,_ and he could not stand to see her die. He had _fought_ , tooth and nail, and had wheedled until he was given extra rations, so he could make sure Rebecca ate enough, even when she threw up most of what she was given, so that she would _recover_.

He had tried _so hard_.

And then she had begun coughing blood, and Eva—who was like them, who spoke _Muntean,_ and who told them stories of home when Bucky and Rebecca had begged her to—had told him that no one ever survived once the blood came. He had not wanted to believe her, had screamed at her and tried to hit at her, but she had held him until he had no fight, no breath, no tears left.

“ _Imi pare rau_ ,” she’d whispered. “ _Imi pare atat de rau_.”

_I’m sorry. I’m so sorry._

Bucky had spent that night by his _soră_ ’s side, had held her when she cried, prayed for her with clumsy words, cried silent tears every time Rebecca screamed.

He held her as tight as he could, had breathed with her, felt her heart beat in time with his, as it had since the day they had been born, and had felt it when she breathed her last.

It’d felt as though the breath had been stolen from his lungs too, as though his own heart no longer remembered how to beat, as though he would die along with her, because surely he was never meant to live without his _soră_ , without his Rebecca.

She was half of his soul, and Bucky did not think he was meant to exist as a single.

They had always been two.

He had thought that he would be punished, when Rebecca… when he… the surviving twin always was.

Bucky had not seen anyone who did not have a _geamăn_ in the barracks or the laboratories, other than the _nazist_ and Uncle Mengele. He’d heard whispers, of course, of the blond boy—the _micul tip_ —who walked only with Uncle Mengele, and was whispered to look like the perfect child.

Uncle Mengele had told them, of course, of what they were trying to do, of the perfection they sought to create, and Bucky was _scared_ , a little, of what might happen if the _micul tip_ was _real_. If Uncle Mengele had the perfect child, then he would have no need for Bucky and the other _geamăn_. He would send them down to the camps that Bucky had seen once, to get his hair shaved off and his clothes burned, to work until his fingers bled, or until he would breathe his last.

But he had never _seen_ the _micul tip_ , and he was not certain if he was real at all.

Bucky did not know what would happen now.

His _soră_ was gone, and though he had expected to die not long after, he had not been taken to the latrines to be killed. Instead, the _nazist_ had taken him outside, to the courtyard, where they had taken his clothes—and for a long, terrifying few minutes, Bucky had believed he would be given the striped pajamas, and that his hair would be shaved—and sprayed him down with icy cold water.

After, though… After he had not been given the striped pajamas, but new clothes. The clothes were old, still, but warmer than the rags he had worn before, and he’d even been given shoes.

He’d been brought to the new room after.

Bucky was not sure what it all meant. Surely Uncle Mengele would not clean him and dress him if he wanted to kill Bucky for what he had done?

The _nazist_ that had taken him to the room were odd. They had been different from the rest, with uniforms with a different, red octopus logo, standing taller and stiffer, not speaking a single word—to Bucky or to each other—the whole time he had been with them, even when Bucky had tried to ask where they were going in his best English.

His _mamă_ had taught him and Rebecca a little English, as they had spoken it in the country she had been born in—a beautiful place that Bucky could hardly imagine, called _Scoţia_.

Bucky had never spoken it to anyone but _mamă_ before though, so perhaps he’d been doing it wrong.

He looked around again, a little scared of sitting on the bed, as he wanted to, because Uncle Mengele had once punished a twin for sitting on the beds in the barracks too long— _lazy_ , he had hissed, _useless_ —and Bucky was afraid of being punished. He did, probably, deserve punishment, for the things he had done, for how he had betrayed his _soră,_ but that did not mean he was not afraid.

There was, however no one around, and Bucky was still cold, after the water, was still shivering, because he had never been as alone as he was now, and the blanket looked _so_ good.

He shuffled forward slowly, hesitantly, fingers trembling when he reached out for the blanket.

He gasped when his fingertips made contact with the _softest_ thing he had ever felt, and _nothing_ happened. There was no shouting, no sudden appearance of _nazist_ to punish him for having the gall to touch what did not belong to him, for daring to use something clearly only meant for _superior_ beings—

Everything was just… _quiet_.

He still trembled when he crawled up on the bed, relishing in its softness, in the way it _enveloped_ him, while all the while feeling _nauseated_ , because he didn’t _deserve_ something as nice, as _soft_ as this. He was _wicked_ and _bad_ , and everything Uncle Mengele had told him their people— _Roma_ people—were.

He did not know how long he sat, wrapped in the soft blanket, weeping tired, frightened tears, but when the door opened at last, the light that spilled through it was pale and dim. The sun had been out, when Bucky had been herded back inside after they had sprayed him with water. He must have been in the new room for _hours_.

The men that stepped inside were not the same that had brought Bucky to the room, and Bucky wondered if they would punish him for taking the blanket for a moment, before he realized they carried a small boy, blond and pale and everything Bucky had heard he was.

The _mincul tip_.

He _was_ real.

“ _Aus dem Weg!”_ One of the _nazist_ barked as they approached the bed Bucky sat on with the blond boy between them. “ _Geh Weg, Dummkopf!_ ” When Bucky only stared at them, uncomprehending and confused, the other growled and spat, _“_ Move, child! Go!”

Bucky scampered off the bed, almost falling over in his hurry to do as the guards told him to.

He watched, back pressed tightly to the wall, as the guards heaved the small blond onto the bed he had previously occupied, covering him in Bucky’s abandoned blanket and tucking it around him with smooth, practiced movements, and Bucky wondered if the blond boy was _nazist_ too.

Surely he had to be.

Surely no _nazist_ would make the effort of _tucking him in_ if he were not one of their own.

Why would Uncle Mengele put him with a _nazist_ child?

He flinched when the heavy door fell shut with a loud _clang_ behind the _nazist_ , and stayed pressed back against the wall for some time longer. His hands were shaking, and he couldn’t really _breathe_ right, and the _nazist_ child just slept on, like… like they were in a _normal_ place.

Like Bucky’s _soră_ wasn’t _dead_ , like the world hadn’t stopped _spinning_.

Bucky looked at the boy again. He looked so tiny and fragile.

Maybe that was why the _nazist_ took care of him.

Bucky moved, finally, away from the wall, mournfully eyeing the soft blanket he had dozed in earlier, now wrapped around the _mincul tip_. Bucky’s body felt tired and sluggish, and he wanted nothing more than to put the day’s painful events behind him, to sleep until he could _forget_ —

As though he was capable of forgetting the feeling of his _soră’s_ dwindling heartbeat against his fingertips.

He looked at the _mincul tip_ once more before he decided he would deal with it later, and crawled onto the top bed of the bunkbed. There was, miraculously, an equally soft blanket and a real mattress, and Bucky nearly _cried_ at the feeling of it.

It felt almost like he imagined sitting on a cloud would feel like.

He sank into it and closed his eyes.

Maybe when he woke up, his _soră_ would be alright. Maybe he wouldn’t have had to—maybe things would be different.

Maybe.

————————

**Auschwitz-Birkenau, Poland  
January 1944**

**Arnim Zola**

Arnim Zola observed the two boys doubtfully, wrinkling his nose in disgust when the brunet Romani boy poked his finger in the sleeping blond’s cheek before he climbed up onto the top bed. If he had not seen evidence of the boy’s true nature himself, he would never believe the meek creature before him was capable of the level of coldblooded depravity he had shown before.

The Rogers boy had shown great potential during the tests already, and though he had had little success in isolating the serum from Rogers’s cells and blood, there had been _much_ to learn from the notes they had taken from Erskine’s dead body and gleaned from the boy’s mother. The data he had been able to gather from Schmidt had painted a complicated picture, but with the Rogers boy’s blood and Erskine’s notes, much had been cleared up.

Perhaps they would not quite succeed at building an army, but… Arnim looked at the brunet boy again.

Two soldiers… unstoppable and invulnerable, loyal to Hydra beyond all others…

Yes. _That_ , he would be able to accomplish.

One way or another.

————————

**Auschwitz-Birkenau, Poland  
January 1944**

**Steve Rogers**

_“Because the strong man who has known power all his life, may lose respect for that power, but a weak man knows the value of strength, and knows... compassion.”_

——

_“You must promise me to stay who you are. Not a perfect soldier, Steven, but a good man.”_

——

_“Steven? Steven, mein Junge, they’re here. You must hide. Do not come out. Don’t let them find you.”_

——

Steve woke up abruptly, breath caught in his throat and the sound of gunshots and cruel, mocking laughter still ringing in his ears. He struggled against the blankets that covered him, shoving at them impatiently, because this happened every time he was returned from Dr. Zola’s laboratory.

Steve did not know much about the serum Abraham had given him when he was a child.

He knew that it had saved his life.

He knew that his heart used to beat funny, and that his lungs hadn’t worked quite right, and that there had been a heap of other things in his little body that weren’t working decently. He knew that his _mam_ had met Abraham when Steve had been just shy of three years old, when his mother had taken him to the hospital for a scarlet fever treatment.

He knew that Abraham had found them when Steve’s little body had been on the verge of death, that he had told Steve’s _mam_ there was one more thing to try, but that it might be the death of Steve too.

He knew that his _mam_ had let Abraham give Steve his serum because at least there had been a _chance_ that Steve would live.

He knew that it had worked, and he knew that Abraham had given Steve’s _mam_ a job.

He knew that Abraham was the closest thing to a father he had ever known.

He knew that it had been terrifying and infuriating when Abraham had made him promise to hide when the Nazis had found them. It’d been _frightening_ to be forced to _listen_ as the Nazi’s beat his mother and shot Abraham, and he’d tried to fight when they found him, because he was _stronger_ than people expected him to be, but there had been too many.

Steve wasn’t sure how long he had been in this place—he was not even sure _where_ this place was—but he knew that it had been a long time. He knew because his _mam_ had told him, because she tried to be there when Dr. Zola did… did _experiments_ on him, because Zola told him there had been much progress in their time together—because Steve could tell.

He was taller.

He was stronger. And he was healthier.

He had not been sick since the first few days since he had been taken here.

Steve sighed heavily and ceased his struggle against his blankets, blinking up at the top bunk blearily. His skin felt as though it was stretched too thin across his bones, his body suspended between too big and too small, falling apart at the seams while being knitted together again. He wasn’t sure what Zola was trying to do to him, but he always felt a little like his body didn’t fit him anymore after he had spent a day on Zola’s steel lab table.

He felt unfocused and tired, and, though he tried to look around the small room, his entire body felt stiff and unused, and his muscles seemed to protest even the smallest movement.

His only consolation was that he knew Zola would not come for him for a while. He would not have to move from his comfortable bed for a few days. Maybe Zola would even let Steve’s _mam_ in to see him again—Steve thought it had been quite a long time since he had seen her, and he had been good the last few times Zola had come for him.

He hadn’t even punched the guards once.

He definitely deserved to see her.

Steve sighed heavily and blinked up at the top bunk, trying to remember if he had any stubs of charcoal left to draw on the little pieces of paper his _mam_ brought last time, when there was suddenly a head peeking over the edge of the top bed.

Steve _did not_ scream.

Steve was a _big_ boy and he did _not_ scream and fall out of bed.

He got out of the bed like a dignified, almost-grown-up almost-nine-year-old would. “Who are you?!” he _asked_ —he didn’t scream.

The boy—because it was a boy, with the prettiest blue eyes Steve had ever seen on anyone, and dark hair that looked so soft Steve fingers _itched_ to touch—blinked at him with wide eyes before he softly said, “Are you… _nazist?_ ”

Steve blinked at him.

“Am I…” He blinked again and shook his head. “Are you asking me if I’m a Nazi?”

The boy blinked again, before he nodded slowly. “They did…” he gestured to the door and then the bed, frowning at it as though it had offended him. “With the soft _pătură_. Why if you are not _nazist_?”

Steve looked between the boy and the bed and back, and frowned. “I don’t know.”

That, it seemed, was not the answer the boy expected, because he scrunched up his entire face and said something in a language Steve did not understand _at all_.

“I am Steve Rogers,” he said, pointing to himself, because the boy did speak English to him, but it seemed it wasn’t easy for him.

“I… I is Bucky,” the boy said, slowly sitting up so Steve could see him properly. He was skinny, but not as skinny as Steve was, and wearing clothes that looked newer than the entire room they were in.

“What kind of name is Bucky?” Steve blurted.

The boy wrinkled his nose at Steve, and pointed to himself. “Bucky is _me_. _Mamă_ says it is for my _unchiul_.”

Steve frowned, because he’d only understood about half of that, but the gist was clear enough. “Do you wanna come down and play?” he asked eventually, crawling back towards the bed and pulling out the drawings he had hidden beneath the bed.

Bucky blinked at him before he timidly asked, “We are okay to… play? Is allowed?”

Steve winced. “Yeah,” he nodded. “We’re allowed.”

“Do you make this?” Bucky asked curiously as he tumbled from the ladder in his haste to get down to the floor. “My _soră_ drawed too.” Bucky’s nose wrinkled as he pronounced the verb carefully, shaking his head a little.

“Yeah,” Steve nodded. “My _mam_ gives me paper when she can. When they let her come over.” Bucky nodded solemnly and plopped down on the floor at the foot of the bunkbed. Steve allowed Bucky to take one of his drawings while he pulled the rest from the little hiding spot in the hollow leg of the bed.

He sorted through the drawings before he turned back to Bucky, who was flipping between the drawings Steve had already freed from their secret hiding place with a little wrinkle between his eyebrows. “How did you get here?” Steve asked curiously, peeking over Bucky’s shoulder to see which drawing he was looking at—a drawing of his house in France, where he’d lived with his _mam_ and Abraham before the Nazi’s had gotten to them.

“I… I come from Uncle Mengele. They take me after… After my _soră_ was gone,” Bucky said softly, voice thick with tears. “The _nazist_ washed me and then put me here.”

“Oh,” Steve said.  He didn’t know much about the experiments Dr. Mengele did, but he knew he liked the man less than he liked Zola. “I’m sorry. About your… _soră_ —is that… does that mean sister?”

Bucky looked at him, tilting his head to the side before he nodded and took another drawing. “I think yes. _Mamă_ says Rebecca’s name instead of English _soră_.” He was silent for a moment before he whispered, “I is alone now. The _nazist_ took _mamă, tată,_ and now my _soră_ too.” He looked up at Steve with big, sad, teary eyes, and said, “I don’t like alone.”  

That sounded horrible, indeed, Steve decided, and it was so incredibly sad that Bucky had to play alone from now on.  “I’ll share my _mam_ with you,” he offered. “And I’ll play with you, if you want.” Thinking about it caused a little excitement to curl in the pit of his belly, because he’d never really had anyone to play with, and he couldn’t wait to try, even though his _mam_ wasn’t here and Zola would eventually come back for him.

“Okay,” Bucky said finally, the word coming out slowly and carefully. “Are we friends then?”

Steve looked at him carefully and then nodded, deciding that he should very much like to have a friend, because he’d never really had one before, and Bucky seemed like he was fun. “Best friends.”

————————

 

 

 

 

**Translation**

 

**Romanian**

| 

**English**  
  
---|---  
  
**_Nu! Tată! Mi-ai rănit tatăl!_**

| 

No! Daddy! You hurt my daddy!  
  
**_Tată_**

| 

Daddy  
  
**_soră_**

| 

Sister  
  
**_Mamă_**

| 

Mama  
  
**_Bătrâni_**

| 

Elders  
  
**_unchiul_**

| 

uncle  
  
**_geamăn_**

| 

Twin  
  
**_Ne-am_**

| 

Family/Tribe  
  
**_bătrân_**

| 

Elder/grandmother  
  
**_[soţ](https://en.bab.la/dictionary/romanian-english/so%C5%A3)_**

| 

Husband  
  
**_Nazist_**

| 

Nazi(s)  
  
**_Imi pare rau_**

| 

I’m sorry  
  
**_Imi pare atat de rau_**

| 

I’m so sorry  
  
**_Mincul tip_**

| 

Little guy  
  
**_pătură_**

| 

Blanket  
  
 

**Irish Gaelic**

| 

**English**  
  
---|---  
  
**Mam**

| 

Mom  
  
 

**German**

| 

**English**  
  
---|---  
  
**Aus dem Weg**

| 

Out of the way  
  
**Geh Weg, Dummkopf**

| 

Go away, idiot/stupid  
  
**Mein Junge**

| 

My boy


	3. Chapter Two

## Chapter Two

**“I think it’s the human spirit within us that has an enormous capacity to survive.”**

**—Amanda Lindhout**

**Auschwitz-Birkenau, Poland**   **  
April 1944**

**Bucky** **Barnes**

Sometimes you’d learn something so poignant, so very _true_ , that you could feel the truth of it reverberating in your very bones. It was a truth that shook your very idea of reality, a truth that many would never be able to give voice aloud.

It was, for him, a truth he could not deny.

James Buchanan Barnes was never meant to live life as a single person. It lay within him to tangle his life and soul with another so thoroughly it would be nigh impossible to suss out where one began, and the other ended. Bucky believed, for the longest time, that his _soră_ , his Rebecca, was the other half of him, and that there would never be another that would soothe the rough edges of his soul the way she did.

He was, in a way, correct.

Steven Grant Rogers _didn’t_ soothe the rough edges of Bucky’s soul the way his _soră_ had, but he _fit_ Bucky in a way Rebecca could never have.

Rebecca had been calm and soothing like the glittering surface of river water, but deep and mysterious and _strong_ like its currents—she was strong when he was weak and she was soothing when he felt as though he was unravelling like cheap ribbon.

Steve, on the other hand, was _warm_ , like a crackling campfire and a fluffy _pătură_ —he was comfort and warmth and the unpredictability of wildfire wrapped up into a tiny blond body.

When Bucky had first been brought to Steve, he had been small and afraid, and though he had tried to protect Steve when the _nazist_ returned—because they had already taken Rebecca, and Bucky would not let them take Steve too—it was also Steve who showed him how to be _smart_. It was ironic, Bucky learned soon enough, to have Steve lecture _him_ about picking his battles, when it was _Steve_ who picked a fight with Dr. Zola nearly every day, and who punched the _nazist_ whenever they said something that didn’t sit right with him.

“I can’t just let ‘em talk like that,” Steve had insisted once. “Picking these battles is important.”

“But you _hurt_ ,” Bucky had argued back. “You lose. Always.”

Steve had looked back at him with an expression of utmost seriousness. “At least I’ll have tried to make it better. It doesn’t matter that I get pushed down. I always get back up.”

Bucky tried to learn from that, as well.

—————

**Auschwitz-Birkenau, Poland**   **  
August 1944**

**Steve Rogers**

Steve’s _mam_ wasn’t allowed to see him very often, and every time Steve _did_ see her, she looked frailer and paler than the last time he’d seen her. She always smiled at him though, and snuck him all the scraps of paper she managed to collect in their time away from one another, and hugged him so tightly his ribs squeaked in protest.

Steve had been excited to see his _mam_ again for some time—not only had it been a long while since he’d last been allowed to see her, but he also had to introduce her to Bucky.

Bucky, who slotted into place in Steve’s life like he was always meant to be in there.

Steve had never had a best friend like Bucky before, and he found he quite enjoyed having someone else in the little room with him. Bucky had not yet been taken to Zola’s room, and it had been quite a while since Steve had been taken too. If he had not learned better already, he would certainly dare to hope that Zola would never need them back—that he would forget them altogether.

“ _Mam_ ,” Steve said excitedly when she was _finally_ brought into their little room. “ _Mam_ , look, I have a friend!” Bucky stood by the lower bed, blue eyes wide and startled, looking at Steve’s _mam_ like he’d never seen a grown-up before.

Steve didn’t mind. He would talk for both of them.

“This is Bucky,” he told her excitedly. “We draw together when we can, and Bucky tells me words in _Romani_ , and sometimes we play soldier too!”

He did not see how Sarah looked at the other boy, concerned and empathetic. He smiled when his _mam_ sat on his bed and offered Bucky her hand, like he was a grown-up too. “Hello there, Bucky. I’m Sarah, Steve’s mom. How long have you been here?”

“Not long,” Bucky replied hesitantly. “I come when the _nazist_ took my _soră_.”

“Well, I’m very sorry to hear that,” Steve’s _mam_ said politely. “Do you want to show me the drawings you and Steven have made?”

Steve squealed and helped Bucky pull their drawings from their secret spot.

This was _great_.

————

**Auschwitz-Birkenau, Poland  
21 October** **1944**

**Arnim** **Zola**

“What I want, Dr. Zola,” Schmidt said impatiently, “are _results_. I arranged for you to be given the Roma boy months ago on the condition you would be able to produce something that would aid our cause. Instead, all you have done is give me empty platitudes and needless delays. If you do not procure meaningful results, I’m afraid you will have to be _replaced_.”

Zola did his best not to show his trepidation at the blatant threat, and merely looked back at Schmidt defiantly. “I assure you, none of these delays were taken lightly. The boy’s mother provided us with new information that lead to a breakthrough. We are now ready to administer the newest version to both boys. We will begin with the Roma boy, in case there are any further… mishaps. Rogers is too valuable to risk losing.”

Schmidt nodded. “Very well. I will remain to oversee the experiment.”

Zola did not bother to try to protest and resumed setting up the laboratory with the tools he would need to administer the second batch of the serum to the Roma boy, and the equipment needed to monitor the boy’s health. There were three guards standing around uselessly, so Zola directed them to move the large table until it stood centered in the room, beneath the large lights he had commissioned under Dr. Mengele’s name so Hydra could not be tied into the experiments conducted here.

It was, perhaps, a silly precaution, but should the war not end in their favor, Zola was confident they would not be able to charge him with anything quite so pedantic as a war crime. Everything he had done in Auschwitz was, after all, set under Dr. Mengele’s name.

The man was, perhaps, a little too obsessed with his breeding programs, but he had a point.

Mankind was, indeed, doomed, if they did not learn to define when human life was worth living and when it was necessary to eradicate it.

They had had many an interesting conversation about the matter, and Zola certainly prescribed to the notion that the world and society could only be preserved by the extermination of those Mengele referred to as ‘morons’. Not entirely, of course, and certainly not right away—said morons served _some_ purpose, after all, and Zola would not go against the laws of nature entirely—but he did feel that those of superior intellect should give natural selection… _a helping hand_ , as it were.

It was the goal they sought to achieve with Hydra, after all.

It was the express purpose of Zola’s research.

Weaker humans, much like the Rogers boy had been before he had received the serum, would be excluded from reproducing. Such faulty genes would not be allowed to survive longer than a single lifetime. Those with superior genes would be encouraged to reproduce, and should today’s experiment be successful, they would receive Erskine’s serum, perfected by Zola’s impeccable research, to ensure the perfection of their genes.

Those who were unfit would learn to accept the rule of more accomplished human beings, and those that resisted would be pushed out or entirely exterminated.

“Fetch me the boy,” Zola told one of the guards when he pulled himself from his musings. “Leave Rogers, we do not need his irksome and intrusive questions right now. Just the Roma boy.” The guard nodded, and Zola thanked God that such morons were at least capable of following direct instructions.

“I expect good results,” Schmidt spoke from his seat at Zola’s desk, where he thumbed through Zola’s notes on the serum lazily. “This Roma boy has already been granted more time to sully the Earth with his presence than we should have allowed him.”

Zola sighed.

“It is not as though I expected him to live,” Zola pointed out. “His sister perished quickly after being administered the first version of the serum.”

Schmidt raised a hairless, red eyebrow. “His sister perished because he—”

Zola shook his head and said, “Mengele told me she was already coughing blood when the boy acted. She would have been dead within days anyway. He believes the boy tried to spare her more pain.”

Schmidt scoffed. “And you believe such sentimental drivel?”

Zola shrugged. “It is inconsequential to our research at this time. I have not given it more thought.”

Schmidt did not reply, and Zola turned away again, finishing inserting the vials of serum he had prepared. If he had been correct in his calculations, introducing this amount of serum to the Roma boy’s system should yield immediate results, and he should be able to perform a number of tests to assess the experiment’s success right away.

After that, it should only take forty-eight to seventy-two hours to ensure the serum had no lethal effect.

He looked up when the door opened, revealing the guard he had sent to retrieve the boy, holding the skinny brunet by his upper arm as they marched into the room. The boy had filled out a little in the time he had spent in confinement with only the little Rogers boy, and Zola could see the other, however subtle, effects of the first version of the serum the boy had been given.

He was taller, although not by much, and he had filled out more than a boy his age reasonably should, especially given the less than stellar conditions Zola had been forced to keep his charges in.

It was, in his professional opinion, a good sign.

“Very good,” he nodded, gesturing the boy towards the table, ignoring the look of fear and trepidation the child gave him. “Let’s begin.” Such things were inconsequential in the grand scheme of things—there would always be those that needed to be sacrificed for the greater good of mankind.

Zola was willing to let the boy be one of them.

The guard lifted the boy up onto the table before he could voice a protest—unlike Rogers, who would have begun struggling and protesting before he entered the laboratory—and wrapped the leather restraints around the boy’s skinny wrists and ankles, before securing the last strap around his waist.

Zola approached the table calmly, having set up the syringes on the tray already.

The boy looked up at him with wide, terrified blue eyes. “What are you going to do to me?” he asked in perfect, if slightly accented, English, lightly straining against the leather straps that held him down.

It was, if nothing else, a clear indication the initial serum had an effect on the boy’s brain too—Zola knew for a fact he had barely spoken any English at all before they had put him with Rogers. The boy was hardly a beacon of intelligence—those of Roma descent rarely were—and no older than seven years old; learning an entire language in a few months was _exceptionally_ impressive.

He made a note to himself to check for similar progress with Rogers—surely the boys would have taught each other their language? If the Roma boy learned English from Rogers, it stood to reason Rogers might have learned Romanian from the boy.

He would have to check.

“I am going to make you better,” he finally told the boy when he picked up the first of the syringes.

The boy merely blinked in confusion until Zola administered the first dose of the serum.

He flinched when the first needle entered his arm, and started to struggle by the time the third dose was administered, but he did not start screaming until Zola pushed the last of it into his veins.

Zola smiled.

He was right—it was working.

————

**Auschwitz-Birkenau, Poland  
25 October** **1944**

**Steve** **Rogers**

“ _Aus dem Weg,”_ the guard snapped at Steve when he entered the room with Bucky’s limp form in his arms. Steve _did not_ actually move out of the way, and crowded around the guard’s legs until he had laid Bucky down on the lower bunkbed, shoving at the tall man impatiently to get to Bucky.

He was excited and scared and _angry_ , because they’d been able to play together without Zola taking him for _months_ , and they’d even been allowed to see Steve’s _mam_ twice, but then the guards had come and had taken Bucky and he’d been gone for _three whole days_.

They hadn’t been apart that long since Steve had first woken to find Bucky in the bunkbed above his.

“I wanna _see_ ,” he insisted when the guard did not move. “Let me _see_ him.”

He ignored the man when he cursed, stepping out of the way before Steve would step on him, and he did not really hear the door slam when the guard left them. Bucky looked really pale and he was sweaty, like he’d been running a lot all day, and there was a really big bandage on his left arm.

Steve pouted at it and stroked his hand over the hurt lightly, because Bucky was the bestest friend Steve had ever had, and he didn’t like seeing him hurt.

Steve had never really had a best friend before, so that would automatically make Bucky the bestest best friend he’d ever had, but even when he’d played football with little Arnaud Roux, who had lived next door to them in Nouvion, he had not really considered the other boy a best friend. Arnaud’s _maman_ hadn’t really liked Steve’s _mam_ and she had _hated_ Abraham because he was German, and though Arnaud had understood that that was a silly reason to hate someone, he had to listen when his _maman_ had told him not to play with Steve anymore.

Steve had been a little heartbroken, at first, but he thought he would feel _much_ worse if Bucky were to be taken from him now.

He looked at his bestest friend, looking incredibly small in the large bed, even though Bucky was actually bigger than Steve, and _awake_. He was blinking up at Steve sleepily, and smiling at him in a way that naturally made Steve smile too.

 “Hey!” Steve said cheerfully. “You’re awake again.”

Bucky blinked at him again and then said, very slowly, “Am I dreaming again?”

Steve shook his head a little—he wasn’t real’ confused, ‘cause when Zola took him, he used to be real’ fuzzy when he woke up too, and he dreamed his _mam_ was there like a million times when she wasn’t too—and patted Bucky’s arm clumsily. “Nah, you’re awake, Buck. They gave you back!”

Bucky smiled dopily. “That’s good. I did not like it there. It was scary.”

Steve nodded seriously. He had been in the lab a lot of times and he didn’t like it there much either—Zola was a _mean_ , _scary_ man, and he looked a little like a pig, although Steve’s _mam_ had made him promise he would _never_ say that out loud where Zola could hear him. “I know,” he finally said, reaching out to stroke Bucky’s hair like Steve’s _mam_ did for him when he was upset. “Zola can be really scary.”

Bucky blinked tiredly and shook his head. “No. Not Zola. The scary red man.”

Steve frowned. “What scary red man?”

“He looked like _moarte_ …” Bucky frowned, stirring restlessly. “Like Death, Stevie. He looked like Death.”

————

**Auschwitz-Birkenau, Poland  
4 December 1944**

**Bucky Barnes**

He looked at Steve cautiously.

His friend had only just returned from an extended stay in Zola’s laboratory, and Bucky had not seen him in _far too long_ , but Steve was a little… _off_ , sometimes, after Zola would return him to Bucky. Bucky was not sure what Zola did to Steve when Steve had to go, but if it was anything like the things Zola liked to do to Bucky when he was there, he did not mind Steve needing a little time to… get used to being in an unhurt body again.

To get used to Bucky’s hands again—hands that reached out to comfort, not to hurt.

“Stevie?” he said quietly, moving a little closer to the edge of the bed, where Steve had curled up into a shivering little ball, arms wrapped tightly around his knees, vacant gaze staring at the opposite wall.

Bucky could see the ceaseless tremble in Steve’s white-knuckled fingers, and he _hated_ Zola like he never had before, because Bucky _loathed_ seeing Steve like this, hurt and scared and nearly catatonic, and he _knew_ Zola did this, because it was what he did to Bucky every time the _nazist_ dragged him off to the laboratory.

He did it to Bucky every time he used needles and knives on him, every time he let the _nazist_ beat him, only to marvel when the bruises and cuts would fade before his bespectacled eyes.

Bucky remembered when he had been normal, and he wished he was again often.

He wished he was, because then his _mamă_ and _tată_ and _soră_ would be alive, and they would still be with their family, traveling around in the caravans and sleeping the comfortable tents, and nothing would be wrong. He also _didn’t_ wish to be normal, because while normal had been nice, he had not had Steve, and he would never have had Steve, and Bucky didn’t want to be without his Steve ever.

Steve did not move, so Bucky crawled on the bed with him, curling his body around Steve, holding the smaller boy close, because he knew it helped Steve relax, and pressed his nose to the back of Steve’s head. “I’m here, Stevie,” he said quietly, because even if Steve wouldn’t want to speak for a while longer, Bucky needed him to know that. “I’m with you to the end of the line, Steve.”

Steve stirred a little, raising his head a little as he whispered, “But Buck. Abraham said lines don’t have an end. They just keep going forever.”

Bucky smiled a little. “Exactly.”

————

**Auschwitz-Birkenau, Poland  
27 January** **1945**

**Ivan Alian  
(106th infantry division of the Red Army, commanded by Anatoly Pavlovich** **Shapiro)**

They had been marching for four days when they reached the wrought iron gates. The stench of ashes and burnt flesh hung heavy in the air, and the words, “ _Arbeit macht frei,”_ seemed to mock them as they marched into the camp. He did not speak much German, but he had picked up enough over the years to know what the words meant. It was not the first work camp they had encountered, but this one… this one struck something deep with Ivan—something that dared not be named.

An eerie silence permeated the narrow passageways between the barracks, and Ivan wondered idly how he could stand to _breathe_ when the smell turned his stomach so much he barely managed to keep from retching in the nearest ditch.

His boots squelched in the mud, and the sound seemed disproportionately _loud_ in Ivan’s ears. He would’ve sworn he could hear his own heart beating in his chest, his breath wheezing in his lungs—

“ _Cтой_ ,” Major Anatoliy Shapiro barked curtly, dark eyes surveying the seemingly abandoned grounds.

Ivan came to a stop beside _товарищ_ Morozov, his fingers trembling where they lay against his rifle. He felt almost like the cold creeping up from the ground, through the worn soles of his boots and into his body through his feet, chilling him down to his very bones.

“This place is not like others,” Morozov whispered, voice so quiet Ivan could barely hear him at all.

Ivan shook his head wordlessly.

They’d not seen much of it yet, and the possibility of an ambush by the Germans remained, but there was an eerie sort of stillness to the camp that reminded him too much of the stillness of the battlefield at Novgorod after a snowstorm. He expected to see bodies wherever he looked, frozen stiff, stripped of their boots and weaponry, like so many of them had been during harsh winters.

There were none, of course.

He was no longer in _Россия_ , no longer so close to home that he could viscerally and vividly visualize those he was fighting for—his elderly _мама_ and his little brother Vasily, and his beautiful Lyudmila, who was sure to have birthed their child by now.

“ _Mоварищ_ ,” Morozov spoke quietly, his voice tearing Ivan from his thoughts harshly and unexpectedly, loud in the otherwise deafening silence. “There are people.”

Ivan followed Morozov’s stunned gaze and froze where he stood. There _were_ people; people that may very well be walking corpses, gaunt and pale, dressed in drab grey striped clothing. Their eyes looked too big for their faces, with hollowed cheeks and dry lips, and Ivan felt abruptly as though he might be sick.

They looked like the creatures of old that his _бабушка_ had told him of when he was little, still.

_Rusalki_ and _Mavka_ , flanked by _Chernobog_ , his dark energy bleeding into the air and infecting their very _souls_.

His _бабушка_ had been an unapologetic heretic, and much as Ivan had disapproved of her lack of faith, he found himself wondering if anything he had believed was true—if perhaps there had been more truth to her muttering and dark stories.

Behind him, someone cursed quietly, and another uttered a quiet prayer.

Major Shapiro stood frozen, also, pale and shaken as he regarded the growing crowd of _живые мертвецы._ Ivan’s eyes found a faded yellow star, sewn onto a prisoner’s ratty shirt, and the realization hit him _so_ hard he felt sick.

Shapiro was a Jew.

It was somewhat of an open secret amongst their company.

Being a Jew was not a crime in Russia—it had not been a crime since the days of the tsar—but it was still not a desirable thing to be.

It was certainly not something to widely advertise.

Regardless of how difficult it was for Ivan to see the people behind the twisted barbed wire and fences, it had to be doubly hard for Shapiro to see such plain evidence of his people’s suffering.

“Sir,” he spoke quietly. “We should keep moving.”

Shapiro remained entirely still for another long moment before he snapped to attention, glancing to Ivan briefly before he nodded. “Morozov, Alian,” he said, the waver in his voice evident, although no one was cruel enough to comment on it. “There are two more buildings. Go clear them. If there are more—” he broke off and looked away. “If there are more, bring them here.”

Ivan nodded silently, turning to _товарищ_ Morozov.

The other man was pale, but nodded dutifully and hoisted his bayonet back onto his shoulder.

They moved, shoulder-by-shoulder, past the other men in their battalion, approaching the large buildings that stood a little apart from the wooden barracks. The silent, eerie spell that had permeated the camp when they arrived had been broken, shattered by the quiet words their fellow soldiers spoke amongst themselves, by the curt, barked orders, and the stomp of heavy boots on the ground.

Ivan was not sure if he preferred the silence.

The silence, at least, had felt appropriate for the situation. Ivan was not sure what had transpired behind these wrought iron gates, but he knew that it must have been a horror unlike anything any of them had seen before—beyond anything they could ever _imagine_.

He waited as _товарищ_ Morozov opened the door, turning back to wrinkle his nose in suspicion when the door opened without any issue.

“No lock?” he asked, frowning in confusion when Morozov shook his head.

Ivan nodded and kept his gun up, scanning the long, seemingly abandoned hallway curiously. The walls were the same drab shade of grey as the prisoner’s clothing, and there was dark, creeping mold growing in the corners. The air was musty and thick in a way that suggested there hadn’t been a living being in these hallways for quite some time, and Ivan wasn’t sure if that was a relieving or a terrifying thought.

The hallway opened up into a large, cavernous room with high ceilings and large windows.

“This looks like a laboratory,” Morozov said, slowly turning to take in the entirety of the room, with cabinets lining the walls, crates haphazardly stacked beside the far wall, and papers strewn about. In the middle of the room stood a large, steel table, and Ivan stomach churned uncomfortably when he realized what the numerous reddish brown stains likely were.

“They left in a hurry,” Ivan observed, moving to the far end of the room to pry open one of the crates, mildly disappointed to find it filled to the brim with notebooks and files. “Looks like they left a lot behind, though. Research, maybe?”

“Maybe,” Morozov sighed. “Nothing of note?”

Ivan shrugged and set down his bayonet, leaning it up against the crate before he dug into it, pulling the biggest notebook he could find out, flipping it open curiously. “It’s all in German,” he grumbled, frowning a little as he leafed through it. “Some English.”

“Give it here,” Morozov said. “I have a little English.”

Ivan handed the book over gladly, picking up his rifle with a sense of relief. It was, maybe, foolish to be so paranoid, but he felt better when he had a weapon in his hands.

“It’s…” Morozov hesitated. “I think it’s something we need to show Shapiro.” He looked up at Ivan with an astonished expression as he said, “It mentions a Dr. Erskine and… _Projekt Wiedergeburt_. Rebirth.”

Ivan felt as though he’d been hit in the solar plexus.

“The supersoldier program the Americans wanted to start? That’s a myth, _Sacha_.” Ivan shook his head, because _of course_ he’d heard of the American’s so-called Project Rebirth, but everyone knew that those experiments had never led to anything conclusive.

“Maybe,” Morozov conceded. “But it says here that it worked for the Germans. Twice.”

“That’s not possible,” Ivan denied breathlessly.

Morozov looked back at him with wide eyes. “There… there are detailed descriptions. Accelerated healing, unimaginable strength, advanced learning skills… They have supersoldiers.”

————

**Auschwitz-Birkenau, Poland  
30 January** **1945**

**Steve** **Rogers**

Steve still didn’t know how long they had been alone before the new soldiers found them.

He didn’t know how long it’d been since Zola had last taken one of them to the laboratory to experiment on them. He didn’t know how long it’d been since he had last been allowed to see his _mam_. He didn’t know what had happened to make the soldiers that guarded their room abandon their post, shouting harried instructions at one another as booted feet had run through the hallway.

He didn’t know why they had stopped feeding him and Bucky until, an indeterminable time later, other soldiers had kicked down their door, shouting incomprehensible words at him and Bucky until they seemed to realize it was just him and Bucky in the room.

He didn’t know why the men had looked at them with something akin to fear in their eyes, and he didn’t know why they’d been brought to this new, bigger room, with _real_ beds and _real_ blankets that actually kept them warm at night. Of course, that didn’t mean they slept separately, because Steve couldn’t actually sleep very well without Bucky breathing next to him anymore, but it was nice to wake up without fearing his toes might have frozen off during the night.

They’d been mostly alone for at least a few days after they’d been brought to the new room. There had been someone to bring them food a few times a day—an unimaginable luxury—and someone had even left a whole notebook and a few pencils for Steve to draw in. Steve assumed they’d found the stack of drawings he and Bucky kept hidden in various places in their old room.

They’d spent a peaceful few days drawing and laughing and eating, and trying not to think about the new soldiers taking everything they’d given them away again.

Steve worried that the man who had entered their room just a few minutes ago was here to do just that.

The tension hung so heavily in the air it was almost palpable.

The man was tall and somewhat intimidating in a way Dr. Zola had never been.

Zola had only intimidated Steve when he explicitly threatened to hurt his _mam_ or Bucky, but this man… there was an air of danger about this man that raised every hair on the back of Steve’s neck and made him want to drag Bucky behind the nearest pillar to hide.

He resisted the urge, but only barely.

The man’s skin was pale, and the dome of his head was shaved bare, but a dark beard dusted his cheeks and upper lip. His dark eyes glittered beneath bushy dark eyebrows, and Steve’s eyes followed the broad line of the man’s shoulder, trying to recognize the uniform he wore—he was no German, that much was obvious, but Steve had no idea where he _could_ be from.

He stood tall, exuding an intense, commanding air. 

Bucky pressed closer to him when the man moved, pulling out a chair by the table that stood by the window. Steve saw him glance to the drawings they’d left on the table, and he _itched_ to run to him, to pull the sketches away and hide them before they were taken from them.

“Peace, boy,” the man spoke in heavily accented English, before Steve could do anything. “I am not here to hurt you or your friend. My name is Vasily Karpov.”

“How do we know that?” Bucky said quietly from his place beside Steve. “Dr. Zola said he would not hurt us either. All he did was to make us better.”

Steve nodded sharply, pressing himself closer to Bucky so they stood shoulder-to-shoulder. It was more comforting than words could say to feel the weight of Bucky’s arm against his, and some of the tension bled from Steve’s frame regardless of the fraught situation. “Why hasn’t he been back?” Steve asked, curling his hands into fists a little, because he didn’t _want_ Zola to come back, but Zola was the only person who knew where Steve’s _mam_ was, and Steve _did_ want her to come back.

Karpov leaned back in the chair and eyed them speculatively. “The war is all but over,” he finally said. “The Nazis try to fight the inevitable, but we will defeat them everywhere as we have here. Zola was captured, not long ago, by the Americans. He has been kept in one of their prisons since then, I do not know where.”

Steve sagged a little, not quite believing what the man had told them.

Surely it wasn’t that easy?

It had been war for so long Steve couldn’t really remember or even imagine a world _without_ war. Even before the Nazi’s had found them in France, Steve remembered overhearing his _mam_ and Abraham grimly wonder if the terror would ever come to an end—if there would ever be peace again—if they would ever be able to stop running.

And now… now it would’ve happened without them even knowing about it?

It felt like such a monumental event that Steve should’ve been able to sense it.

Karpov seemed to interpret Steve’s silence as shock and residual fear and assured him, “You’ll never have to see him again. He will not be able to hurt you boys again.”

Steve looked up in surprise and blinked, because that hadn’t even _occurred_ to him. He’d never have to see Zola again. He’d never have to hold Bucky after Zola tried to peel his skin off again, would never have to go back himself to lay on the cruel man’s table to be experimented on again.

But.  

“He knows where my _mam_ is,” Steve blurted, swiveling to look at Bucky with wide eyes. “They have to ask him where—if the war is almost over then we can go _home_. You have to help us find my _mam_.”

Karpov pressed his lips together and leaned further back in his seat, studying them for a long time with that same intense, unwavering gaze. Steve squirmed a little, but refused to take back his words. If this man spoke the truth, the Nazi’s were losing and they were _free_ —that meant they would be able to _leave_ this place.

Steve wasn’t going without his _mam_ though.

He didn’t need to look to know Bucky would agree with him.

“Your mother’s name is Sarah Rogers, yes?” he finally demanded, gesturing impatiently to the soldier that stood by the door, taking a manila folder from the soldier’s hands.

Steve nodded shakily.

Karpov harrumphed and flipped through the papers contained in the folder. “When Zola was captured, he was travelling with several assistants and a prisoner.” His eyes flicked up to gauge Steve and Bucky’s reaction to his words, raising a hand to forestall Steve’s _many_ questions. “The only information I have on the prisoner is that she was a woman, named Sarah. The Americans took her back to the U.S.A.”

“They can’t do that!” Bucky interjected heatedly, stepping forward rashly. “She’s Steve’s _mam_.”

“They already have, boy,” Karpov replied succulently, glancing down at the papers again before he looked up at them. Steve felt vaguely ill—his _mam_ was in _America_. That was so incredibly far away he couldn’t even begin to fathom how he and Bucky would be able to get there, much less how they would find his _mam_ when they did.

He wanted to cry, a little.

Bucky’s hand found his and squeezed. Steve blinked rapidly against the tears that burned in his eyes— _fine_. Maybe he wanted to cry _a lot_.

They all remained silent for a time, until Karpov set down the folder with a tired sigh. “Perhaps there’ll be something we can do to help you get her back.” He stood, clasping his hands behind his back and moved to stand at the window, glancing out to the woods behind the building silently. He remained silent for at least a full minute before he abruptly turned back to them.

“Of course, much as I would like to help you, it’ll cost me greatly to do so.” He crossed his arms over his chest and studied them keenly. “I would expect a helping hand in return.”

“What can we possibly do for you, though?” Bucky asked, frowning a little. “We’re just kids.”

“I’m sure there are a few things we could come up with,” the older man said, leaning back against the desk, dark eyes glittering and a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. Steve did not like the expression whatsoever, but he could tell that the man wasn’t _lying_ —if they agreed to help him, he would help them find Steve’s _mam_.

Steve exchanged a wary glance with Bucky.

After all that they had been through together, they needed very few words to communicate their thoughts to one another, and Steve had never been quite so grateful for it as he was now. Bucky looked as apprehensive as Steve felt, but Steve could tell they were thinking the same thing—it was their very best opportunity to find out where Sarah had been taken.

“Fine,” he said, not looking away from Bucky. “We’ll come with you.”

Karpov’s grin turned slightly manic. “ _отлично_.”

————————

 

 

 

**Translation**

 

**Russian**

| 

**English**  
  
---|---  
  
**_товарищ_**

| 

Comrade  
  
**_живые мертвецы_**

| 

Living dead  
  
**_бабушка_**

| 

Grandmother  
  
**_Россия_**

| 

Russia  
  
**_стой_**

| 

Halt  
  
**_отлично_**

| 

Excellent  
  
 

**Romanian**

| 

**English**  
  
---|---  
  
**_Tată_**

| 

Daddy  
  
**_soră_**

| 

Sister  
  
**_Mamă_**

| 

Mama  
  
**_Nazist_**

| 

Nazi(s)  
  
 

**German**

| 

**English**  
  
---|---  
  
**Aus dem Weg**

| 

Out of the way


	4. Chapter Three

## Chapter Three

**“Creative minds have always been known to survive any kind of bad training.”  
—Anna Freud**

**Department X (Отдел X), Moscow, U.S.S.R.  
6 February 1945**

**Vasily Karpov**

He had spent the last month observing the two boys they had found in Auschwitz, learning their mannerisms and gauging their intelligence. It was somewhat difficult to appraise how much of that intelligence was due to the serum they had both received, but Vasily had been able to ascertain that both boys were intelligent _far_ beyond their age.

Little Steven was only seven, after all, and Bucky—as he preferred to be called—was no older than eight. Vasily did believe the brunet boy to be a bit older than Rogers, if only because of the notes the late Dr. Zola had so very conveniently left for them to find.

He had not set out to lie to the boys, not outright. He _was_ sympathetic towards them; he had children of his own, after all, and he was not unfeeling altogether. He _did_ intend to help them find Rogers’ mother, if he could, but he feared that there would not be much left to find.

Zola had made a note of Sarah Rogers’ recurring illnesses during her captivity, and considering over two hundred of the other ill and weak prisoners they’d saved from the camp had died within weeks, Vasily was not entirely optimistic about Sarah Rogers’ chances of survival.

Even so, he had not _lied_ , per se.

When Zola had been captured and promptly shot—an accident, according to the reports shared by the American team that had tried to apprehend him—there _had_ been a female prisoner with him. The woman _had_ been taken back to the U.S.A., but Vasily had absolutely no proof that the woman was, indeed, Sarah Rogers.

What he _did_ know was that they could not risk letting the Americans find the two boys.

They may be on the same side of the conflict for now, but Vasily knew well enough that the Americans would refuse civil relations after the war had been won. For a people so very interested in protecting freedom, they were exceptionally weary of anything that looked different from their definition of freedom.

The idea of the super-serum falling into American hands was… unsettling.

It was, however, not quite as unsettling as watching the two boys interact when they thought they were alone. He supposed such close bond was only to be expected after the hardships they had endured, but it was still something they would have to watch closely. If these boys were to grow into the best soldiers the U.S.S.R. had ever seen—their very own supersoldiers—they would need to be trained out of their peculiar attachment to each other.

With the Widow Project in its infancy, the search for adequate recruits still ongoing, Vasily was most excited to start the Wolf Spider program early. With a bit of luck and the best of trainers, he would be able to have both boys trained and ready to defend the U.S.S.R.’s interests from the West and China within a few years.

First, he would have to gain their trust, though, and he would have to be careful in doing so. The Rogers boy was clever, but he lacked the suspicious nature that his friend seemed to have. While Rogers was clearly the leader of the duo, inspiring a kind of breathless loyalty the likes of which Vasily had never witnessed before, Bucky was the suspicious one, with bright, suspicious eyes that noticed _everything_ that Rogers didn’t. It was a most useful skill to have, and Vasily would greatly enjoy honing the boy’s innate skill until it was a finely tuned weapon they could use against their enemies.

They had been in Moscow for a scant few days, having finally been deemed healthy enough to make the long journey. It was not, of course, that they had been _unhealthy_ before—Vasily suspected the serum had prevented it—but it had been a good opportunity to, for a lack of a better word, _spoil_ the boys, to lull them into a sense of security that was not _false_ , per se, but certainly not as innocent as Vasily would like them to believe.

In the few days they had been here, though, Vasily had learned quite a lot.

The Rogers boy seemed categorically incapable of sticking to his own business. Whenever he was witness to something he deemed “immoral” or “unjust”, he would attempt to step in, to correct the course of events, even if it did not work in his own favor. While he certainly had the strength to fight and to _win_ those fights, he lacked the skill to do so successfully.

This was, it seemed, where Bucky came in.

Whereas Rogers seemed to rely on surprise and brute force, Barnes was at least semi-skilled in a fight, and managed to pull the other boy out of whatever scrape he had gotten himself into relatively unscathed. One of his soldiers had managed to keep track; so far Rogers had managed to get into a fight with two boys who had been throwing rocks at a cat, a soldier who had not quite managed to keep his hands to himself in the hotel bar of the hotel the boys had stayed in, and an old, German man who had foolishly called them filthy Jews where they could hear him.

While it was, perhaps, not a quality others would praise, Vasily had been _delighted_ to hear of it.

It was, after all, something he could mold into their favor very easily.

All he would have to do was convince Rogers that _their_ cause was the righteous one. Vasily did not think it would be particularly hard. He already knew that Rogers had a soft spot for equality and justice, and he would do just about anything to keep his mother—God rest her soul, should he not succeed in finding her—and Bucky safe.

That was something Vasily could work with.

He eyed the boys that had curled up on the couch in front of a large window, covering themselves with the large blanket that had been hidden in the chest beside the couch.

He could do this.

—————

 **Department X (Отдел X), Moscow, U.S.S.R.  
10 March 1946–one minute past** **midnight**

 **Steve** **Rogers**

“Hey Bucky,” Steve whispered quietly, having slipped out of his own bed so he could kneel next to Bucky’s instead, shaking his friend awake as quietly and gently as he could manage. They were not really permitted to speak or roughhouse after lights out, but Steve had always been a bit of a rebel, and it was Bucky’s _birthday_.

It was a special occasion.

“Steeb,” Bucky muttered sleepily into his pillow. “No.”

Steve merely grinned, undeterred by Bucky’s grumpy mood, and glanced to the door to make sure no one was coming to check on them before he pounced. Bucky groaned when Steve jumped on his back, and Steve laughed quietly, bouncing on Bucky’s back—broader and stronger now than it had been when they first came to the U.S.S.R.—until the older boy broke, rolling over so fast Steve didn’t have time to brace himself, grabbing Steve by the waist and pinning him down on the bed.

It was a move they’d learned in their hand-to-hand combat class, and Steve was both proud that Bucky had mastered the move already, and jealous that _he_ couldn’t do it yet.

“What do you want, Rogers?” Bucky all but growled, and Steve couldn’t help but grin.

“Happy birthday,” he declared quietly, smirking up at his best friend beatifically. Said best friend only rolled his eyes and relinquished his tight grip on Steve’s wrists, rolling to the side so they were lying next to each other. Steve turned onto his side and smiled at Bucky. “You’re nine,” he said seriously. “And you’re the best at hand-to-hand _and_ Foreign Languages. Do you think they’ll let you start the advanced training soon?”

“Maybe,” Bucky shrugged. “But I ain’t going unless you’re coming too.”

“Buck,” Steve chastised lightly, reaching out to tap Bucky’s chest reproachfully. “I’m not as good as you are yet. It makes sense they’d let you progress before me.”

It was true; while Steve was physically stronger than Bucky, he was still smaller and lither. He had learned to manage his strength in the year that they had been here, had learned that just because he wasn’t as tall and muscled as Bucky—who had shot up like a weed in the past few months—didn’t mean he couldn’t fight just as well.

It mostly meant that people would always underestimate him.

He could use that to his advantage.

Bucky, though… Bucky didn’t just excel at the physical side of their training, but also the intellectual side. He picked up on new kinds of technology so easily it was almost terrifying, and learning new languages seemed to come naturally to him. Steve was good too, but he wasn’t quite _that_ good—not yet anyway.

He would be soon, though.

He would be.

“I don’t care if it makes sense,” Bucky finally said, drawing Steve from his thoughts. “I’m not progressing without you, Stevie. We’re a team, even when they try to make us forget that, sometimes.”

Steve sighed, wriggling closer so he could hug Bucky. “End of the line, then?”

Bucky grinned and nodded, pressing his face to the top of Steve’s head. “End of the line.”  

————

 **Department X (Отдел X), Moscow, U.S.S.R.  
7 May,** **1947**

**Bucky Barnes**

He had not seen Steve in exactly seventy-two hours.

It was part of a test, he was certain. Comrade Karpov was fond of his little tests, and Bucky had long since learned to excel at his tests in order to be allowed a little leeway every now and then. As time passed, Karpov had become more strict, insisting he and Steve spend time apart, learning how to function as individual soldiers so they could better function as a unit.

Bucky wasn’t so sure it would work, and he greatly disliked being away from Steve, but he did want to succeed. He wanted to become good enough to be sent on missions, so he could prove himself, so he would be allowed to _help_ take down their enemies.

He wanted to be allowed to hunt down the people that had taken Sarah from him and Steve, and he wanted to make them _pay_ for their audacity.

They had forced Sarah to return to the U.S.A. with them, had forced her to leave Steve behind, and then when she had no longer been useful to them, they had discarded and abandoned her. They had let her die—Karpov had told them the news himself, when he had found out.

He had given them pictures, fuzzy and unclear, had shown them reports that Russian agents had obtained from within the American intelligence systems.

He had kept his promise to them, and while it was not the outcome Bucky had hoped for—Steve had been inconsolable for _months_ —he was grateful that they _knew_ , at least. They knew what had happened to Steve’s mother, and they knew exactly who to pursue, who was to blame.

If separation was the price they needed to pay to be able to avenge Steve’s mother, it was one Bucky knew they’d both gladly pay.

Bucky would persevere, and he would overcome whatever obstacle Karpov lay in his path.

He would show them all what he could do.

————

**West-Berlin, West-Germany  
13 August, 1948**

**Bucky** **Barnes**

_“We’re the same, Buck-Buck. We’re the same soul in two bodies. If either of us ever dies, we’ll live on in the other, because we share a soul.”_

_——_

_“Te rog, frate. Ajută-mă să plec. Mă doare.”_

_——_

_“You’re my favorite, Bucky. The bestest friend I’ve ever had. Don’t ever change.”_

_——_

_“You are a good little soldier, Yasha. Prove your loyalty. Pull the trigger.”_

_——_

_“We have a mission for you, Soldier. A chance to prove yourself.”_

_——_

_Я готов отвечать._

_——_

He had not been back to Germany in years.

He was different now than he had been then. Then, he had been a child, heartbroken but innocent in the ways of the world. He was only a few years older now, but it almost always felt like he was also several decades older. There was blood on his hands that would never be washed off, and he no longer bore the name that his _soră_ had given him when they were toddlers.

He could not.

He was a soldier now— _The_ Soldier—and he had a responsibility to many.

His primary duty was, of course, to his _капитан_ , his Steven, his Stevie. He did not quite recall when Steve became _капитан_ even within the privacy of his own mind, but it was a title that fit the younger boy in a way nothing else ever had, and the Soldier— _Bucky_ , Steve’s voice whispered in the back of his mind, _your name is still Bucky_ —would do whatever he needed to protect his _капитан._

His loyalty to the U.S.S.R. was second only to his loyalty to Steve. The U.S.S.R. had taken them in when the Americans had taken Sarah from them, and they had kept them fed and clothed, had put a roof over their heads and provided training for them when they wanted a way to fight back, to be useful and strong, so that no one could ever abuse them as the Nazi’s had ever again.

Training was difficult, and it was painful, but it yielded results.

Only a scant three years after Bucky had begun his training, he was finally given the opportunity to repay Karpov and Department X for their kindness.

The mission took him to the American side of Berlin, to an airfield that was buzzing with activity.

“The target will arrive in a Douglas C-54 Skymaster,” his handler told him curtly, handing him a folder that contained an image of the type of airplane and an arrival time. “You will be given a weapon that will allow you to puncture its wheels upon landing. This will make it appear as an accident. Ensure that the plane catches fire afterwards and then return here immediately for debrief.”

The Soldier nodded.

The mission seemed straightforward enough. The target had been disrupting Soviet interests in Berlin by spreading dissent amongst civilians and blatantly undermining Soviet authority. The Soldier _sneered_ and handed the file back to the handler, accepting the large weapon in its stead.

He selected one of hangar roofs with excellent visuals of the runway the plane he was meant to take out would land on. His gaze strayed towards the watch he had been given, noting that his target would be arriving in precisely seven minutes.

If his calculations—and those of the Department—were correct, that meant the target’s plane would be the second to land. Weather conditions were _perfect_ to stage an accident with an airplane—cloud cover over Berlin had dropped to the height of the buildings themselves, and the heavy rainfall would interfere with radar visibility.

He watched with bated breath as the first plane landed and taxied off the runway, settling himself comfortably with the weapon, pressing his finger to the trigger and his eye to the scope just in time to hear the rumble of approaching airplane engines.

It was, all in all, far easier than he had anticipated to find the correct spot to puncture the tires, sending the plane spinning wildly, and much easier than he thought it would be to take two calculated shots to rupture the fuel tanks. The plane careened wildly before it smashed into a building, bursting into flames immediately.

The Soldier allowed himself a moment of satisfaction before he was moving again, pushing up onto his feet, collecting the weapon and taking a leaping jump off the roof. Vaguely, he registered the mayhem behind him, a second plane careening wildly off its own runway and onto another and a third doing its best not to crash into it.

“Mission success,” he announced when he returned to the plane and his handler that waited for him on an airfield a few kilometers away. “The second plane was taken out as commanded.”

The handler nodded. “Very good. You have done us a great service today, Soldier.”

The Soldier did not speak further, for he had nothing more to say. He mentally added three tallies to the steady growing list in his head, and offered an apology to a deity he believed his mother might have told him about, once.

He sat where they directed him and strapped in.

They would not linger now that the deed was done and the mission was completed. It was time for them to return home—to the room he sometimes still shared with his _капитан_. To his _капитан_ ’s side, where the Soldier believed he truly belonged anyway.

As their place rumbled to life, its engine roaring loudly in the otherwise silent night, the Soldier leaned his head back against the back of his seat.

He could not wait to be reunited with his _капитан._

It was, after all, his first successful solo mission, and he had performed admirably, he knew. Being allowed to return to his _капитан_ was his reward.

He hoped his Steven would be pleased with him too.

The Soldier acted only for him and for Karpov, after all.

He stained his hands with blood so that his _капитан_ would not have to.

It was a sacrifice he gladly made.

——

**Red Room Academy, Belarus, U.S.S.R.  
19 June, 1949**

**Steve Rogers**

He stood tall in front of Colonel Karpov, hands clasped behind his back and feet planted wide. Bucky— _The Soldier_ , as Bucky had decided to refer to himself when they were running missions—stood half a step behind him, mirroring Steve’s pose. They had run a couple of missions together so far, bringing each one to a successful end, regardless of the odds that stacked against them, and Karpov now sought to reward them.

It was an honor, of course, to be granted access to the Black Widow program, but Steve was also aware of the kind of expectation that came along with such access to a project so deeply classified and important that it officially did not exist at all.

“They called her Natalia Alianova in the orphanage,” Karpov told him dryly. “The other Widows like to mask their jealousy by calling her a Romanova.” He snorted derisively. “She certainly has the looks to be a long lost Romanov. She was procured at age three, and has shown great promise during the last year and a half. Lukin believes her to be more talented than even you.”

The words were spoken with great mirth, but Steve hears the unspoken challenge in them nonetheless.

Karpov had been good to them so far, had provided them with training and opportunity when they asked for it, and had protected them from the more zealous members of Department X. His protection had ensured they had an enviable place of pride within the department; should they fail and embarrass him now, that protection could very easily be withdrawn.

Steve was certainly not arrogant enough to think he and Bucky were entirely irreplaceable.

He did not plan to fail this mission, though.

It was, in essence, one of the simpler assignments they had been given, and one that could very easily be seen as a reward for their previous achievements. They would be responsible for training the little Widow in hand-to-hand combat, teaching her English and basic American mannerisms.

The assignment would be one set in the longer term, and they were expected to produce results within six months of the onset of her training.

Steve was confident.

While not all approving of his and Bucky’s training, they could not argue with their results.

No one scored higher in marksmanship and learning foreign languages than Bucky, and Steve had a natural knack for strategy planning that was hitherto unsurpassed within the department.

“We will not fail you, _полковник_ ,” Steve assured him, nodding solemnly.

Colonel Karpov nodded sharply. “See that you do not.”

——

 **Department X (Отдел X), Moscow, U.S.S.R.  
7 July,** **1950**

 **Bucky** **Barnes**

Bucky had learned that, these days, he much preferred to stick to the shadows.

He worked best, after all, when he was relegated to doing the work no other had the stomach to do, when he was allowed to protect his _капитан_ and his motherland. It was not the land that had birthed either of his parents, but when they had been taken from him, it was the land that had provided for him, that had saved him from certain death when he had barely been more than a toddler.

His _капитан_ , in sharp contrast to Bucky—to the Soldier—was meant to stand in the light. He was sunshine personified, and it baffled Bucky still to see Steve, his _капитан_ , his partner, his _friend_ , charm people thrice his age by simply smiling at them. It seemed people had an impossibly hard time recalling Steve was a well-trained individual, despite his youth.

Most people saw a twelve-year-old boy, but Bucky knew that he was far more than that.

It never failed to make the Soldier smile.

 _Steve_ never failed to make the Soldier smile.

“What are you doing in here all by yourself?” The Soldier— _Bucky_ —looked up abruptly to find his _капитан_ standing before him, bright eyes sparkling with amusement as he looked at him.

Bucky shrugged lightly, managing to conceal the way Steve’s smile made his stomach feel all fluttery and funny, accepting the apple Steve handed him gratefully. They were not permitted a luxury such as fresh fruit very often, and certainly not when Karpov was displeased with them—as he had been following a recent mission in Romania, where a lack of communication from local agents had led to the Soldier’s target escaping.

It seemed Steve had managed to charm Karpov into forgiving them for this failure.

“I did not want to go to bed yet,” he admitted gruffly, although it was only partially true.

They were alone in the training center, and Bucky relished in the rare moment of peace that they had been granted. They had not been alone together in many years—Karpov disliked their bond, Bucky knew, and he always had. He had been displeased with the way both boys had clung to each other when they had been younger, and Bucky suspected he had not yet forgotten their attachment, even though they had been far more careful to show it in recent years.

Steve nodded silently and reached out to touch Bucky’s arm, and Bucky tried desperately to pretend that his skin wasn’t tingling where Steve’s brushed over it. “Can I sit with you?”

“ _да_ ,” he acquiesced, looking away from Steve when he bit into the apple, turning his attention to his own before he would do something… unforgivable.

And embarrassing.  

“I am tired,” he admitted after a brief silence. “I am tired of these constant missions. I am tired of only being reprimanded for our failures, few as there may be, without being praised for our achievements.”

Steve was silent by his side, and Bucky felt bad immediately, for he knew that Steve was _always_ on his side. It was hardly Steve’s fault that others tended to forget and ignore him, that they were so set in their prejudice that they dismissed the Soldier’s successes simply based on his parentage, assuming he was only successful because he stood with Steve.

“Sorry,” he sighed, turning back to Steve and offering him a soft smile. “I know you don’t—I just get a little tired of it.”

“I can imagine,” Steve offered empathetically. “I promise I won’t bring it up tonight.”

And he didn’t.

They spent hours talking in the training center, munching on their apples and holding a contest to try to launch the pits the furthest, and Bucky felt lighter and happier than he had in a very long time. He could not quite keep his eyes off of Steve, could not quite shake the idea of leaning in and seeing if he could taste the tart taste of the apple on his lips—

He couldn’t recall ever feeling this way before.

It was _scary_.

He did not quite realize how close they were seated together until Steve fell silent as well. He looked up at Steve, surprised to find the other boy so close that he could feel the heat radiating from Steve’s pale skin. “Bucky,” Steve murmured, eyes fastened on Bucky’s. “I want to try something.”

“Anything,” Bucky blurted. His breath caught in his throat when Steve rocked up onto his knees, slim, strong fingers curling in the fabric of Bucky shirt, drawing him closer so they shared a single breath before Steve’s soft lips brushed across his own.

He stopped breathing for a long, drawn-out moment before he remembered how to, before he remembered the way his body worked. He had never kissed another before, and he had not really wanted to either—he’d had no real expectations, but he felt it should not be this… this simple.

Their lips pressed together chastely and Steve’s lips were really soft and tasted the apple he’d eaten earlier, and Bucky kind of wanted to press harder, hold him tighter, but he didn’t dare to because he didn’t know _how—_ or even if that were something he were allowed.

Perhaps he should have paid more attention when other agents gossiped of the women they had made time with when they were not on missions.

They kissed for an indeterminable time, before Steve leant back, smiling lightly.

“I’d never done that before,” Bucky blurted, cheeks burning with heat when Steve chuckled. “I don’t have any idea what to do now. I do not think _полковник_ Karpov would approve, should he know.”

Steve shrugged and smiled a mischievous smile. “What he does not know, cannot hurt him.”

Bucky smiled despite himself.

Perhaps this would be easier—better—than he had thought after all.

——

**Red Room Academy, Belarus, U.S.S.R.  
9 September 1951**

**Bucky Barnes**

The old school had been repurposed long ago, its abandoned classrooms making way for dance studios with hardwood floors and mirrors on the wall, long-forgotten dormitories redecorated and stuffed with beds that would never be used for their intended purpose, steel handcuffs wrought into the bedframes, and classrooms outfitted with projectors to show its young audience the corruption within their enemy.

Twenty-eight little girls had lived here, once.

The Soldier had seen them all come and go, and had found he did not particularly care for the little Widows. They were efficient in covert operations, and certainly made for excellent spies—because their enemies relied on sentiment in a way the Soldier had not been allowed for a long time, and seemed incapable of accepting the inherent danger in a child’s innocent appearance—but they were also far too much trouble.

Of course, the Soldier was not consulted on such matters, and so he kept his opinion on the little spiders to himself. They had been consulted only once, had been allowed access to one of the little spiderlings to train her once. The Soldier did feel an odd sense of fondness for their little spider, and he was eager to see how she would perform in today’s test.

The test today had been set up by _левиафан,_ with the express purpose of luring in dangerous American operatives, who would stand in the way of their plans for peace and safety for all.

The Soldier had not been briefed on every American operative _левиафан_ and The _босс_ expected, but he knew that his _капитан_ would have been fully briefed. The Soldier never questioned his _капитан_ and fully understood that he was informed only of the things that were pertinent to his own mission.

Today’s mission was, in essence, fairly simple.

The little Widows had been instructed to lure in the Americans, and to strike when they least expected it. There were only two Widows left now, but the Soldier and his _капитан_ were to ensure that no American operatives would escape. The Soldier would see to it—Americans were the ones that would have condemned his _капитан_ when he was a small, sickly child, that would have cast him and his family out for being different, and were the ones that sought to foist their dominance upon the entire world, so that no one would be free ever again.

The Soldier had been without freedom long enough to know its true value.

They had taken Steven’s _mam_ from them.

He watched, impassive, as his _капитан_ instructed the little Widows.

They stood almost identical, dressed in impeccable uniforms with their hair braided neatly, standing side-by-side with eerily similar blank facial expressions. The only difference in their appearance was the light, almost luminescent blonde hair of the elder Widow, who stood so pale she may very well have been a ghost, in stark contrast to the littlest Widow’s vibrantly red hair.

The Americans would never suspect them of wrongdoing.

“Show them no mercy,” his _капитан_ instructed carefully. “This is a test. Do not fail.”

The Widows nodded and then scurried off, leaving the Soldier alone with his _капитан._ The Soldier raised an eyebrow when the tall blond turned to him, silently waiting for the other man to direct him to where he would be needed.

They had been given free rein on this mission, and the Soldier _knew_ that this was a test for them too, to see how they would operate without direct supervision. He knew there were many who would see them fail—Lukin insisted his own pet Widows were far more effective and infinitely more useful than two filthy _Zhyd_ orphans they had retrieved from the _Gans_ at the end of the war. They’d been separated too, forced to perform as single agents, put in dangerous situations with little hope of a successful outcome, but they had persevered. There had been many different attempts to rid the world of him and his _капитан_ before, but they had overcome them all.

The Soldier intended to continue to overcome them.

He did not move when his _капитан_ moved closer until they were virtually pressed together, trailing his fingers across the Soldier’s cheek, expression soft. It was an intimacy they did not allow themselves often, and the Soldier _relished_ in the brief touch. “What do you need of me?” he asked when his _капитан_ stepped back, expression shuttering into total blankness once again.

“We will observe the spiderlings,” his _капитан_ said calmly. “If they fail and there are stragglers, we will eliminate them. We were given special orders to ensure that Sergeant Timothy Dugan, Agent Margret Carter and Private Gabriel Jones do not escape under any circumstances.” He produced a file and handed it to the Soldier, tapping at three pictures at the top of the page.

The Soldier studied the three people intently, memorizing their faces carefully so he would be able to pick them out of a chaotic crowd, should the situation call for it. He supposed it would be easy enough to spot the dark-skinned man in what was likely to be a team of white people, and the man with a large ginger mustache would surely stick out like a sore thumb in this area.

The woman…

The Soldier was not accustomed to seeing many female agents in their ranks, although he would never dare underestimate a woman—he had seen what the little Widows were capable of even with minimal training. He would not dare underestimate a trained soldier, male _or_ female.

“What’s our window?”

“Twenty-four hours,” his _капитан_ replied curtly. “The Widows have instructions for extraction. You and I will comb the area to ensure no Americans escaped, then return to _Москва_ for debrief and maintenance with _левиафан_ and The _босс_.”

The Soldier nodded and looked down at his rifle, ensuring it was functional before the mission started.

His _капитан_ looked up when there was a small noise at the door. When the Soldier turned to look as well, it was to find the small red-headed Widow—their little spider—there, eyes a little wide and just a tad afraid when she said, “They are here.”

“Good,” his _капитан_ said. “Do not fail us.”

Their little spider narrowed her eyes, and the Soldier was almost impressed by her determination when she said, “I _never_ fail. They will not leave again.”

The Soldier hiked the strap of his rifle up his shoulder and squinted at the little Widow.

“We shall see.”

——

**Red Room Academy Grounds, Belarus, U.S.S.R.  
9 September 1951**

**Steve Rogers**

He nudged the tip of his boot against the body their little spider had left in the abandoned dormitories.

Single shot to the forehead, clean and quick, no hesitation and no mercy.

A most admirable kill, and one Steve would be certain to praise their little Widow for when they next got the opportunity to speak with her. The other Widow had managed to critically wound one of their main targets while little Natalia took out two stragglers, but the girls had, ultimately, failed.

Dugan, though severely injured by their little spider’s knife to the chest, had managed to escape the school with the aid of Carter, Jones and a contingent of other soldiers. The Widows were not prepared for the number of soldiers that had flooded the school and had retreated, conceding the battle.

Steve was, if nothing else, proud of their ability to recognize their own limitations. They would have no use for spies that could not recognize their own shortcomings.

He stood tall at the very end of the steps leading into the school now, waiting for his Soldier to return to him, so that they could begin hunting down their elusive targets. The little Widows would soon be returned to Lukin, to be punished for their failure and rewarded for their kills, and once he and his Soldier had dispatched the escaped Americans, they would be free to return to Moscow too.

Steve hoped so very much that they would be able to find a moment alone before they returned to the prying eyes that followed them everywhere in Department X. Since their first kiss, they had only been able to steal a handful of moments together, and none longer than a few minutes at a time—Steve was not sure what more could come of their kisses, but he _had_ missed sleeping in Bucky’s arms.

Of course, he was no longer as small as he had been the last time they had shared a bed, but neither was Bucky, and Steve was sure they would be able to figure something out.

He glanced to his right when he heard the heavy stomp of Bucky’s boots on stone behind him. “Are the Widows taken care of?” He asked as soon as Bucky joined him, tilting slightly sideways so his upper arm pressed tight against Bucky’s for a moment.

“ _да_ ,” Bucky replied curtly. “I have tracked the Americans movements in the forest from the tower as well. They are not as stealthy as they seem to think.” He lifted a hand to point to the eastern edges of the forest. “They have set up camp about eight kilometers from here, just one kilometer east of the river.” He scoffed lightly. “Their overconfidence will cost them dearly.”

Steve nodded. “We should go then.”

They walked for a long time, careful not to leave traces of their presence, because while they were in their own territory, their success depended a great deal on their ability to remain invisible to their enemies. They could not be anticipated if no one knew that they existed.

It was late enough that the sun was beginning its descent in the west, and a cool breeze whistled through the trees. Steve took a moment to mentally thank the men and women who had spent much time designing efficient and sufficiently warm gear for him and Bucky, because what began as a mild breeze quickly evolved into a biting cold wind.

They crossed little streams and overturned logs, quickly coming upon evidence of others having passed through there before they had—broken branches and barely-there footsteps in the damp underground—and Steve could swear he could hear the soft whisper of voices.

His hearing was better than that of most people, and they were nearing the natural border to the estate, close to where Bucky had said the Americans’ camp would be. “They are close,” he informed Bucky when the other man caught up with him. “We should find higher ground; it will be easiest to ensure we take out the correct targets.”

There were a few stray leaves caught in Bucky’s hair, and in his efforts to avoid breaking branches, it seemed a few had left shallow scratches on his cheeks. Steve did not doubt he looked similarly dishevelled, and merely offered Bucky an undoubtedly soppy smile.

“This is no time for that,” Bucky told him sternly, although Steve could tell he was secretly pleased that he still held Steve’s attention. “Come. There is an oak, there, with strong branches and sufficient foliage to hide us. It will not hinder visibility into the camp.”

Steve nodded silently.

This was, after all, Bucky’s speciality, and Steve had long learned to trust the other young man’s instincts.

They climbed up into the oak Bucky had selected, settling on different branches so they could both set up a decent sniper’s nest, having previously discussed their individual targets. Steve took a deep breath to steady himself before he settled in to study the camp through his scope.

The fire that burned was small and contained, and there was a single tent set up, hidden neatly in a darkened copse of trees. Steve almost approved, before he remembered that these were the people who had captured Zola, who had taken his mother back to America and had abandoned her and let her die.

He recalled their names from years ago, when Karpov had allowed them to read the file he had compiled on Steve’s _mam_. They had not given the order to take her to the U.S.A., maybe, but they were most certainly complicit in her death.

Steve could not wait to finally have his vengeance.

——

**Timothy Dugan**

By the time they had managed to steer clear of that damned school with its damned girls with more knives than any little girl should possess, much less be capable of handling them with the lethal accuracy those two little demons had. It was late evening, and Dugan was _exhausted_. The skin that had been torn by the little girl’s knife burned, but he knew he had been fortunate—he could have ended up like Pinkerton; the poor fucking bastard.

Carter had deemed their camping spot well-hidden enough to risk lighting a small fire, and Dugan was damned grateful for it too—it looked like the night was going to be cold enough to freeze his nuts off.

Fucking _Russia_.

He’d volunteered to walk the perimeter, to ensure no one had followed them from that school from hell, because he couldn’t _fathom_ sitting still right now. Peggy was trying to radio their nearest contact, but it hadn’t looked great when Dum Dum—as she liked to call him—had left them.

The woods around him were quiet—a little too quiet for his tastes—but he had found nothing that would further arouse his suspicion. He supposed it was entirely too possible that these just _were_ naturally eerie; he’d definitely seen more places like it during the war and the following years.

He heaved a sigh and slowed to a stop a few feet outside of their campsite.

The other soldiers had marched ahead a few more miles; while there was certainly safety in numbers, it would have been plain _stupid_ to try to trek these woods undetected with that many men.

He had volunteered, along with Peggy and Gabe, to stay behind a little, to ensure no one would be following the larger group—Thompson, the ornery bastard, had grasped at the opportunity to get out of these woods. It was not that Dugan did not like Thompson at all; he seemed like he was competent enough, if not a little too blinded by the fact that Peggy was a dame—a damned fine one at that—to realize she was more competent than all of them put together.

Dum Dum grinned a little—they’d all been there at some point; but it certainly looked like Thompson hadn’t really learned to look past the red lipstick and enchanting smile yet.

He leaned heavily against a tree, watching as Gabe stoked the fire a little before turning to smile at Peggy, who emerged from the tent just then. He observed as she approached Gabe, watched as his brother-in-arms reached out to her, drew her closer, whispering something that Dum Dum didn’t need to hear to know was _incredibly_ soppy.

He looked away, allowing them their moment of privacy.

Lord knew there was _a lot_ speaking against the two of them.

He and Gabe had met Peggy when she had single-handedly busted them out of a prisoner-of-war camp in Austria, and Dum Dum had watched Gabe fall in love at first sight with the fierce, stubborn woman who refused to take no for an answer.

Peggy had taken a little longer to warm up to him—to them all—but she had, eventually, deemed to give Gabe a chance. They were happy, as far as Dum Dum knew, even though there were many that liked to question their competence, their intelligence, and—in some cases—their sanity. It’d been much easier for Gabe to remain in Europe for the time being, blowing up the few remaining Hydra bases with Dum Dum, while Peggy went to build a career for herself in the States.

He looked up, and his stomach clenched a little when he caught sight of Peggy and Gabe wrapped in each other’s arms, trading soft kisses as they swayed where they stood.

He was not jealous of them specifically; he only envied what they had.

The girl he had been seeing before he’d enlisted had left him before he’d been in the war six months, and no one he had met since had come close.

He was torn from his thoughts by a muffled gasp and a soft thump. He straightened immediately, pulling his gun from its holster and flipping off the safety—whoever that had been, they were _not_ with them. He snuck past a large thicket of bushes, eyes widening when he caught sight of—

Jesus, two _kids_.

They were partially hidden behind the foliage on a large oak, and armed to the teeth, and Dugan had _no doubt_ they’d been sent to take out him and Peggy and Gabe. He was not sure what had happened though, because both boys were far more preoccupied with each other than they were with Peggy and Gabe. The blond boy had his hands firmly wrapped around the sniper rifle in the brunet’s hands, speaking to him urgently in hushed tones that Dum Dum could barely make out.

“Bucky, they’re like _us_ ,” the blond whispered, gesturing pointedly in the direction of their camp.

“They are _hаша миссия_ ,” the brunet insisted, half-heartedly pushing at the blond’s hands. “Our mission, Stevie. We need to _finish_ this.”

Dum Dum swore silently and turned, sneaking in the direction of the camp as quietly as he could. He could tell the moment Gabe and Peggy caught sight of him, their expressions going from relaxed and contented to wary and on red alert in a single heartbeat.

Dum Dum held his finger to his lips to shush their inevitable questions before they could let the boys know they were onto them and gestured urgently, beckoning them closer.

“We were followed,” he breathed when they were close enough. “Two boys.”

Peggy’s sharp gaze immediately left his to scan their surroundings, and Dum Dum could tell the instant she clocked the two kids. “Lord, they’re so young,” she breathed, eyes wide. “Are they—”

“I think we can get through to them,” Dum Dum confided urgently. “They had an opportunity to shoot and they didn’t. Something about the two of you stopped them. Looks like these kids are close—we can play on that.” Gabe raised an eyebrow at him and Dum Dum shrugged.

“The Russians won’t ever let them stay together,” he said matter-of-factly. “They treat their soldiers as disposable. I bet these two don’t see each other as that.”

He met Peggy’s gaze unflinchingly, waiting for her say-so, because she _was_ and she always would be his C.O., and if she didn’t deem it worth the risk, he would not take it. “They might know more about Leviathan,” he added, because he couldn’t really _stand_ the idea of letting kids who were younger than his own nieces and nephews go back to the Russians. “They could help us prove Howard’s innocence.”

Peggy looked at him with a distinctly unimpressed expression that told him she knew _exactly_ what he was doing, and it was _not_ going to work. “Very well,” she finally conceded anyway. “Go ahead then.”

Dum Dum gave her a bright grin and turned back to the tree the boys had hidden themselves in, somewhat pleased to find that they hadn’t noticed Peggy and Gabe’s absence from the clearing yet, too busy arguing amongst themselves.

“Hey kid,” he said, loud enough that both boys flinched, whirling around to stare at him so abruptly they nearly fell out of their perch. He barely repressed a smile—trained as assassins or not, the wide-eyed gaze kids gave adults when they got caught doing something they weren’t supposed to didn’t change at all. “Wanna come down here and have a chat?” Dum Dum offered, holding his hands up in supplication. “Promise we won’t shoot you if you don’t shoot us.”

The brunet kept his rifle aimed at him, unwavering, pale eyes filled with a mix of trepidation and fear fixed on their small little group. He didn’t move until the slightly bigger blond boy laid a hand on his arm and nodded. “You have to put away your weapons,” the blond said in a tone that told Dum Dum he was used to his orders being followed.

“That’s fine,” Dum Dum nodded, glancing over his shoulder to ensure that Peggy and Gabe would comply. “Will you come down?”

The blond exchanged a quick glance with the brunet boy before he nodded, leaping down from the tree and rolling back onto his feet, catching the other boy’s sniper rifle when he dropped it before he jumped too in a single move so smooth Dum Dum could hardly believe his eyes—they’d been at least eight feet up, but the kid jumped it like it was nothing.

Jesus.

What had the Russians done to these kids?

The boys stood side by side, both taller than Dum Dum had expected, taller than anyone their age _should_ be, eyeing them with pure—but defiant—fear and distrust.

“We’re not your enemies here,” he said calmly, keeping his hands up, palms turned towards them.

The blond sneered a little while the brunet scoffed, and _maybe_ this was going to be more difficult than Dum Dum had anticipated. “You took my _mam_ ,” the blond spit, knuckles whitening as he clenched his hands into fists. “You took my _mam_ from me and then you let her _die_ , and now you seek to destroy the people that took us in after. If you are not our enemy, who is?”

The brunet tensed a little while the blond spoke, eyes flitting between him and Dum Dum restlessly.

Before Dum Dum could say anything, Peggy stepped forward, brow creased in confusion. “I’m sorry that you’ve lost your mother. I’m sorry that you’ve been led to believe that we want to destroy the people that were kind enough to take you in; I promise, that’s not what we’re trying to do.”

“I didn’t _lose_ her,” the blond hissed. “ _You_ took her.”

Dugan opened his mouth to… to say something, anything, to deny, to promise the boy that they weren’t in the business of taking mothers from their sons—

The brunet spoke up before he could, his voice lower and gruff, as though he hadn’t spoken in a while. “She was a prisoner when she was found by an American team,” he stated. “ _Your_ team. You were there to capture Dr. Zola. We were still in the camp then. We didn’t find out until later that they had sent her to the U.S.A. with him. She died a year after getting there, abandoned by the people that supposedly _freed_ her from captivity. Her name was Sarah Rogers. You should remember that. You should know the name of the woman whose death you caused.”

Gabe hissed out a breath and Dum Dum blinked, dumbfounded.

“Your mother was with Zola?” Peggy asked, frowning.

Both boys nodded silently.

“Zola wasn’t sent to the U.S.,” Gabe blurted, breaking the awkward silence that had fallen. “I shot him when we found him. He—he cost us too much. He hurt too many people.”

Those words seemed to hit the boys _hard_ , and the blond stumbled back a step. “No, no, he said—”

“Kid,” Dum Dum said gently, “these people aren’t always the good guys. I’m sure they’ve helped you, that they took you in, but—they’re never going to let you stay together. That ain’t how they work.”

“They’ve tried to separate us before,” the blond said shakily. “We always persevere.”

“You could come with us,” Peggy offered gently. “We would keep you safe. We would let you stay together—you could find out what _really_ happened to your mother.”

Dum Dum observed the way the blond boy reached out to touch the brunet’s arm, forcing his face to remain neutral as he watched the two have an entire conversation with a single look—it was definitely impressive, and probably why the Russians hadn’t separated the two yet—and trying to figure out the dynamic. They’d mentioned being in a camp, earlier, and Dum Dum wondered, feeling vaguely ill, if they had been in one of the larger extermination camps.

He wouldn’t put it past Zola.

“We can’t,” the blond finally spoke, not taking his eyes off of his friend. “We owe Karpov too much, and he has always been kind to us. He will not let those who would wish us ill harm us.”

“Kid,” Dum Dum tried, but both boys were already backing away from them.

“We must go,” the brunet said. “They want you dead. It would be prudent to you and beneficial to us to let it appear as though you _are_.”

Before they could respond to that, the boys turned and disappeared, so swiftly and so fast Dum Dum barely saw them run away at all. He turned around to face Peggy and Gabe, unsure of what to say—to _do_ after what the boys had revealed to them—blinking at his friends in confusion.

“Well,” Peggy said after a brief silence. “That was enlightening.”

Dugan could only nod. It’d certainly been something—they had a lot to think about.

————————

 

 

 

**Translations**

 

**Russian**

| 

**English**  
  
---|---  
  
_**Я готов отвечать**_

| 

Ready to comply  
  
**_товарищ_**

| 

Comrade  
  
**_босс_**

| 

Boss – Stalin  
  
**_левиафан_**

| 

Leviathan  
  
**_капитан_**

| 

Captain  
  
**_Zhyd_**

| 

Derogatory term for Jews  
  
**_Gans_**

| 

Derogatory term for Germans  
  
**_Москва_**

| 

Moskou  
  
**_полковник_**

| 

Colonel  
  
_**да**_

| 

Yes  
  
 

**Romanian**

| 

**English**  
  
---|---  
  
**_Te rog, frate. Ajută-mă să plec. Mă doare._**

| 

Please, brother. Help me let go. It hurts.


	5. Chapter Four

## Chapter Four

**“There comes a time for us not to just be survivors, but to be warriors […] Seize every opportunity from here on out. Live.”  
― Becca Vry**

**S.S.R. Safehouse, Brooklyn, New York, U.S.A.  
9 July 1952**

**Gabriel Jones**

When he first woke up, he wasn’t sure what it was that startled him awake. He stared up at the mottled ceiling of their bedroom for a brief moment, trying to shake off all remnants of sleep before he realized he was alone in the bed. He heaved a sigh, rubbing his hands across his face like that would get rid of the utter _exhaustion_ that’s been plaguing them for the better part of a year, since they’d returned to the States under different names, leaving their old identities behind to be buried in Europe.

He’d been trying to get used to civilian life, and he hadn’t been doing too poorly.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t true for them all.

With great reluctance, but much greater concern still, he hauled himself out of bed and went in search of his wife—he still couldn’t quite believe he was allowed to call her that, now. It was not the first time he had woken in the middle of the night to find the other side of the bed empty, and he sincerely doubted it would be the last time—he did not mind.

They all struggled to leave the war and active duty behind in different ways.

He just wanted to be allowed to support her in whichever way he could.

When he found her, she was curled up on the rickety fire escape, her hair spilling loosely across her blanket-wrapped shoulders. “Peggy?” He approached her carefully, making sure to make some noise as he did, because he hadn’t forgotten the time she’d almost broken his wrist because he’d startled her.

He climbed onto the window sill, reaching out to touch her shoulder gently, sighing a little in relief when she merely hummed in reply, leaning back against him as she raised her hand to touch his.

“I can’t stop thinking about them,” she said softly after a brief silence. “I know that I should. But I—”

She broke off and shook her head, and Gabe’s heart _hurt_ for her. It wasn’t that he had been able to forget the boys so easily—on the contrary, he saw them almost every night in his dreams—but he had not been as affected by them as Peggy had.

He wasn’t wholly surprised by her words.

“We can’t help them now,” he finally said, and even though his voice was barely louder than a whisper, he knew she had heard him.

She sighed before she tugged on his hand gently, guiding him to sit with her, curling himself around her as he did—he didn’t want to lose her, and sometimes, on nights like these, it felt as though he was. She was slipping from him, her mind still in Europe, still with the S.S.R., with the teams planning on overthrowing the Russians... Anywhere but here, with him.

“I think I can,” she whispered, leaning her head back against his shoulder before she continued. “But I don’t want to lose you if I do.” She looked up at him with beautiful, tear-filled dark eyes, “I _can’t_ lose anyone else. We’ve lost so many already…”

Gabe swallowed thickly and nodded.

_Pinkerton. Dernier. Falsworth._

So many others that the list felt like it could go on forever.

“I know,” he replied quietly. “Tell me how we can help them.” He didn’t try to make idle promises—he knew as well as she did that there were certainties in this life.

Peggy was quiet for another moment before she said, “I found her. Sarah Rogers. I found her.”

——

**Department X (Отдел X), Moscow, U.S.S.R.  
5 March 1953**

**Steve Rogers**

“Joseph Stalin is dead.”

Steve froze, feeling a little like he had been punched in the solar plexus, staring dumbfounded at Colonel Karpov, who seemed quite shaken himself. Bucky stood a few meters behind Steve, by the window, and Steve didn’t need to look to know Bucky would sport a similar expression.

A few of the female agents in the room abruptly burst into tears, and quite a few of the male soldiers—men Steve had worked with, with whom he’d seen some of the greatest horrors human kind was capable of—had tears running down their cheeks as well.

“How do we go on?” _товарищ_ Petrova wailed, collapsing onto the nearest seat. “How do we go on, _товарищ,_ without our father to guide us?”

No one seemed to have an answer for her.

Even Steve, who had not been a great fan of Stalin and his methods, was unsure how to proceed. How would their lives go on without the man? Steve had not liked him, had _despised_ the things the man was willing to do to others to hang onto the relative power of his office, but—

But he’d allowed Karpov to take them in, he’d allowed Karpov to train them, had taken a chance on Steve and Bucky when no one else would have.

Steve looked down. He could not mourn the man who had ordered so many despicable things done—not truly—but he could mourn the man he had once believed Stalin was. He kept his eyes on the floor, swallowing thickly, and hoped none would notice his lack of tears.

Joseph Stalin was dead.

Perhaps, Steve mused to himself, the Party would use this opportunity to change the Soviet Union for the better. Perhaps they’d take a chance and _grow_ , so that true equality and equity could be achieved.

Perhaps they would succeed in creating a brighter future—without war—now.

——

**Department X (Отдел X), Moscow, U.S.S.R.  
23 May 1953**

**Aleksander Lukin**

Aleksander Lukin glared furiously at the two Widows that stood before him, looking appropriately cowed by his fury. Their immense failure had cost the Department dearly, and Lukin would be forced into a horrendous meeting with Khrushchev to justify why they’d not yet been able to stop the dramatic increase in emigration from East Germany to the west.

Worse than that was that they would likely have to call upon the Wolf Spiders.

While Lukin certainly saw the value of having two supersoldiers on their side, he believed the Rogers boy was more trouble than he was worth. Karpov seemed to admire the boy’s wit, and Lukin certainly knew how to appreciate his intelligence and his unparalleled eye for strategy, but he had proved far too rebellious for Lukin’s tastes in the past few years.

He feared his Widows might be affected by Rogers’ inability to follow simple orders.

Especially Romanova.

He eyed the little redhead speculatively.

She’d been a prodigy—angelic and beautiful—and Lukin valued her dearly. He knew, however, that she looked up to the two Wolf Spiders—Karpov’s loyal, if somewhat troublesome, little soldiers—and he feared it was a sense of attachment and admiration they would have to nip in the bud before it became a larger issue. She was young enough still that her behavior could be corrected—he was not so certain about Rogers and Barnes.

“What were you _thinking_?” he demanded, keeping his eyes trained on the little girls. “You know better than to let yourself be seen, and certainly better than to let anyone who could recognize you _live_.”

“They were not part of our mission,” Belova insisted. “Their death would have drawn more unwelcome attention to us and would have compromised the entire mission.”

Romanova nodded, but remained silent, dark eyes tracking between him and Belova speculatively.

Perhaps she was not so far gone after all.

Lukin shook his head in disappointment nonetheless. “You are both supposed to be the best, _паучки_. Am I to believe you could not have found a way to dispose of your witness without drawing attention to yourselves?”

Belova opened her mouth again, likely to spout more justifications that would not take away the fact that the girls had created more problems than they had solved, and that Lukin would be forced to turn to Karpov, would be forced to ask for Karpov’s little soldiers to clean up the mess Belova and Romanova had made in Berlin.

As though the situation was not tense enough already.

“You are dismissed,” he spat coldly. “Report to Madame B. She will deal with disciplining you.”

The older Widow glowered at him, although she remained mum as she and little Romanova left the room, and he made a mental note to have Madame B. correct her behavior.

Such blatant insubordination could not be tolerated.

He would have to speak to Karpov about his Spiders too. Those boys were poor influences on Lukin’s little Widows—they’d been obedient until he’d foolishly allowed the older boys to train Natalia.

He glanced towards the clock.

Karpov would likely be observing the supersoldier’s training at this time of day.

It would have to do.

——

**Vasily Karpov**

_Полковник_ Vasily Karpov had never once allowed himself to be put in a vulnerable position that would require him to rely on others to ensure his survival. While many might have underestimated his tall but slim, pale form, they always failed to take his hidden musculature and his innate talent to assess any situation into account, and he ensured that error in judgement cost them dearly each time.

He had not been entrusted with the training and education of the only two supersoldiers in existence lightly, and he had not earned his position as head of Department X by being overly sentimental and merciful, and he’d often wondered at the stupidity of those opposing and outright questioning him.

He had worked his way up through the ranks, had lived long enough to recall the chaos that had permeated the last few years of the tsar’s reign, had seen enough to remember Lenin’s first speech in April and had cried ugly tears when the man died. He had mourned the man who had inspired him to fight for his motherland, and who had had a vision so strong that they’d reformed the entire country for it.

Of course, _товарищ_ Stalin had noticed and rewarded his military prowess many times as he rose through the ranks, and encouraged his taking initiative on several ambitious projects, the most recent of which being the Wolf Spider project.

He returned his attention to the two boys, who stood facing each other in the training center he had set up with the specific intention of training and testing them. They had not been given weapons, and Karpov knew they had been told to fight to first blood—they healed fast enough that whatever injuries they inflicted on each other would heal before it would matter—and he was curious to see how they had progressed since he had last been present at one of their sparring sessions.

He had missed more than he liked to admit in the last few weeks. Stalin’s death had rattled them all, and it left them with a future that was far more uncertain than he liked—there were many power-hungry _мудак_ in the Party, and Karpov was no longer sure he could keep his Wolf Spiders safe from those who would use them simply for experiments.

He had been able to keep the existence of true supersoldiers under wraps for now, had initially kept the knowledge limited to himself and _товарищ_ Stalin—later, Stalin had brought Aleksander Lukin from the Black Widow project into the inner circle—and had arranged for _accidents_ to occur to those who had brought the information to them.

It had, in the end, led to good things.

The accident that had befallen Ivan Alian had directly led to his daughter being placed in an orphanage—after his wife had died in childbirth—which was where Lukin had found her.

She had become a fearsome opponent even to his Wolf Spiders, and she was barely eight years old.

Of course, that single act of brilliance did not endear the man to Karpov at all.

He could barely suppress the urge to sneer as his thoughts strayed to that aggravating, arrogant, and imbecilic bastard—he _loathed_ the man with his entire being, and if Stalin would’ve allowed it, Karpov would have arranged to do away with the bothersome bastard years ago. Karpov could not in good conscience approve of a man who liked to _experiment_ on _children_.

The Widows were effective, but Karpov did not like to think about the things Lukin had done to them to make them so—there was a reason only two had survived to this day.

He did not like to think about children being used so—it reminded him too sharply that his Alexi was not much older than the Widows were—and it was why he had not pushed Rogers and Barnes on training until they _asked_ for it—although he did admit he may have helped their curiosity and anger along a little.

Assuming the woman captured with Zola had been Rogers’ mother was the easiest choice he had ever made; she had died before the year was out, and it had been easy to inflame Rogers’ rage against the system that had abandoned his mother.

“ _Полковник_.”

He did not turn, watching as Steven—the Captain, as most called him playfully—and Bucky—his loyal Soldier—circled around each other, sizing each other up, waiting for the other to attack before making a move. Naturally, that did not deter whatever brave agent they had sent his way, because they continued, “ _Полковник_ , _товарищ_ Lukin wishes to speak with you.”

He barely suppressed the urge to sigh, and tilted his head to acknowledge that he heard the agent, but did not avert his gaze from the boys. “Bring him here then,” he said, gaze riveted on his Wolf Spiders. They had leapt into attack simultaneously, moving smoothly and _fast_ , so fast some of their movements appeared no more than a blur to his inferior human eyes.

It would not be long before they would be unstoppable.

Karpov was not sure if that was a good or a bad thing anymore. He was fond of these boys, but if they proved a threat—if they proved dangerous beyond Rogers’ inability to obey direct orders if they conflicted with what he deemed ‘ _right_ ’—

Karpov sighed.

He hoped he would not have to think of that.

“ _Mоварищ_ Lukin,” he nodded when the other man stepped up beside him, clasping his hands behind his back. “You wished to speak to me.”

“Yes.”

Lukin’s voice was cold, and Karpov could tell he was measuring each word before he said it out loud. “It is a matter of utmost urgency and one that requires the strictest form of discretion.”

Karpov merely raised an eyebrow, finally turning from his soldiers to look at Lukin.

“It is about your… your _паук_ ,” Lukin said distastefully, wrinkling his nose as he looked at the two boys trying to beat each other up. “I fear their little… _rebellious_ phase is affecting _my_ Widows. I won’t stand for it.”  There was a grave edge to Lukin’s tone that should’ve frightened Karpov—that _did_ frighten him, if he was completely honest—but he shook off all such emotions and focused on determining what, exactly, Lukin wanted to say.

“It is not my responsibility to control your spiderlings, _Mоварищ_ ,” he replied mildly.

“No,” Lukin agreed. “But these two,” he gestured to the sparring boys casually. “These two _are_ your responsibility. They’ve become somewhat of a nuisance; and I am not the only one who feels as such,” Lukin said, a vaguely pleased smile tugging his thin lips into a grotesque imitation of a smile.

Karpov was barely able to conceal his irritation at the mere thought of having to defend his spiders from greedy, power-hungry _bastards_ , but managed to speak calmly nonetheless. “What is it that you want, _Mоварищ_ Lukin?”

Lukin’s dark eyes were entirely focused on him now, and it would likely have unnerved him if he had not been accustomed to the man’s intensity. “I want you to consider what you’ll do when you can no longer control them. Rogers is already a loose cannon, the Soldier is toeing the line, and their insubordination is causing the others to _rebel_. We can’t have that, not now.”

“What do you suggest?” Karpov asked quietly, staring at the boys intently.

Lukin was, of course, frustratingly, right, to an extent.

There had been missions… a few incidents where Rogers had outright refused to take out a target because he could not justify the kill to himself. It was, of course, not the best quality to have in their line of business, but Karpov believed the boy might yet grow out of it—he was only fifteen, after all.

“We have technology,” Lukin replied immediately. “It’ll keep them in suspended animation until we have developed sufficient mechanisms to… _aid_ in assuring their compliance.” 

Karpov reeled back and blinked at Lukin. “You want to put them in _cryostasis_?”

Lukin smiled, wide and toothily. “Only if they give us reason to.”

Karpov opened his mouth, but before he could speak—before he could tell Lukin that such measures would _not_ be necessary—the door behind them burst open and a breathless, sweaty agent came tumbling in, dishevelled and clearly unprepared to face both of them.

“Sirs,” he panted, eyes jumping between them restlessly before they settled on the two boys, visible through the thick one-way glass window behind Karpov and Lukin. “We’ve found something.”

——

**Leipziger Straße, East-Berlin, German Democratic Republic  
16 June 1953**

**Bucky Barnes**

He perched on the rooftop silently, peering through his scope to identify and take out potential troublemakers before they could cause even more of a riot. The masses on the streets were impressive, to say the least, and the Soldier had only seen such large groups of people when Stalin’s body had been put on display in the Hall of Columns of the House of Unions in Moscow.

The mood of the crowd had been very different then; people had been sorrowful and solemn, mourning their leader—their _father_.

Now, people seemed incensed, angry and passionate, and the Soldier found it difficult to argue with some of the demands displayed on the banners dotted throughout the crowds. 

_Wir wollen Freiheit, keine Sklaverei!_

_Arbeiter aller Länder: Vereinigt euch!_

He knew these people had suffered since the end of the war—many of them had—and he did not blame them for fighting for what they wanted. He knew that was an opinion he could not risk putting into actual words, not even with his _капитан_ , his Stevie.

They’d tried to be careful, after letting the Americans escape, to ensure that no one would question their loyalty, but Steve’s temper got the best of him a little too often, and the Soldier was all too aware that they were on thin ice—one more scrape, one more semi-intentionally botched mission, and the consequences would likely be more severe than any they’d faced up to now.

“ _солдат_ ,” someone barked from behind him.

The Soldier whirled around, eyes widening to find an entire team standing behind him, their expressions grim and hands on their weapons. “We are needed elsewhere,” the handler said drolly, glancing over his shoulder. “Your _капитан_ should already be there.”

The Soldier deliberated for a moment before he shrugged. It was not worth the effort to argue back against these orders. He stood, taking a moment to wipe the dust off his pants, before clicking the safety into place and slinging the rifle over his shoulder. “Lead the way,” he said, voice hoarse after several hours of complete silence.

He did not miss the way the other agents relaxed minutely, and briefly wondered what _that_ meant as he pushed past the handler. He did not realize it was a mistake to turn his back on the man until it was too late, and the needle had already broken skin, the drug already pushing its way into his bloodstream, making his head swim and his legs wobble.

Nausea welled up from the pit of his stomach, and he’d barely realized he was _not_ in control and that his body clearly had no intention of remaining vertical. “Shit,” he managed, nausea rushing from his stomach to his head before he tilted back, knees buckling as the world went black.

——

**HYDRA Siberian Facility, Siberia, U.S.S.R.  
17 June 1953**

**Bucky Barnes**

He felt like he was still sleeping, the world around him muted and dull, a little fuzzy around the edges in a way he had never experienced before. He knew, distantly, that he needed to wake up, that there was something he needed to fight for, but he couldn’t quite remember what it was.

Time passed syrupy slow, and Bucky didn’t think he moved at all from where he lay, on the cold, stone floor in a room he couldn’t quite recall having seen before.

As he dozed, images of the past few years played on repeat in his mind, his uncanny ability to watch his memories with crystal clarity a curse like never before, because he  _saw_  all the ways he’d let Steve down over the years, all the ways he could have done more to protect him—

But also all the small intimacies they’d shared over the years, all the little things that they’d been told shouldn’t be shared by two boys—two men—all the ways he had managed to corrupt Steve.

Bucky had always been _bad_.

He knew that Steve had made him promise not to believe any of the things he had overheard Zola say about him while he was on his table, because Zola had been a _foul_ man, and a _biased_ one, but he had not been wholly wrong about Bucky.

Bucky had been a killer even then.

Even now, he perfectly recalled the way his hands had shaken and the way his breath had wheezed in his lungs, the way he had been sobbing, because he didn’t _want_ to do it, but Rebecca had _begged_ and _pleaded_ and Bucky had always been categorically incapable of denying his _soră—_ his _geamăn_ —anything. He had traded the good that had been left in his soul so that she would not have to suffer anymore—it had been an unfair trade, perhaps, because he still felt the way she had struggled, feebly, in those last moments, like her body had known and had tried to resist anyway—

“I’m sorry, Becca,” he whimpered, tears running down his cheeks. “It should’ve been me. I’m sorry.”

He should’ve tried harder to find a way to save her.

He thought time passed while he stared at nothing, while he  _tried_ , tried so hard to figure out what he needed to do to make things right again.

Bucky thought he drifted off again.

——

When he next woke, his head felt marginally clearer, and he could vaguely remember what had happened. He did _not_ , however, recall how he had ended up in a tiny cell, flat on his back, his body _screaming_ in agony in a way it hadn’t since he’d been a child.

He took a deep, calming breath to steady himself and took a moment to catalogue his injuries. The deep breath immediately caused a sharp jab of pain in his side and he winced, hissing under his breath—at least two broken ribs, then. Possibly three. He blinked at the dull grey ceiling and actively fought down the bile that burned the back of his throat—a concussion, too, then.

He breathed calmly for a few long moments, trying to figure out how to best _breathe_ without hurting himself any further. He wasn’t entirely successful, but he would not have gotten as far into his training as a Wolf Spider if he had not learned to handle pain, and he could push past it to figure out what was going on.

He had most definitely been drugged and kidnapped, although he could not fathom _who_ would take such a risk—they were Karpov’s personal favorites, and that held a lot of sway still, even without their connection to Stalin himself.

He rolled his head from side to side gingerly, trying to take in as much of his surroundings as he could without aggravating his ribs.

The room he had been deposited in was small—so small it reminded him, for one sickening moment, of the cell he and Steve had shared in Auschwitz—and its walls consisted of thick concrete, reinforced with steel rods, which meant that he probably couldn’t just kick the door off its hinges.

That was disappointing.

It seemed no one was coming for him anytime soon though, so he allowed himself to sink into old habits, and slipped into a trance not unlike the one he had learned to adopt in those interminable hours when he’d wait for Zola to return Steve to him. He bided his time, dipping his proverbial toes into the deep well of patience he had learned to cultivate over the years, that he only touched when he needed strength and stillness while he waited for particularly elusive targets to wander into his scope, and waited for whoever took him to make their next move.

In the end, he did not have to wait very long at all.

Before he knew it, the door banged open loudly, and a team of four men stepped in—likely part of the same team that had shown up to abduct him originally—unceremoniously dragging him to his feet, clapping his wrists with heavy iron manacles before they wordlessly dragged him out of his little cell and through a long, darkened hallway.

Bucky’s head _swam_ , and he wasn’t sure if he was actually walking or just dragging his feet, but it didn’t seem to affect the men that held him firm by his upper arms.

He felt like he had barely blinked at all when they suddenly entered a large, cavernous room, set up with several large… _tubes_? Bucky blinked and frowned. They looked like the tubes Zola had had in his lab, that he had used to experiment with their blood, only much, much larger.

“Bucky!”

It took him a single heartbeat too long to realize that the voice came from Steve—and something in Bucky’s chest _unfurled_ , allowing him to take a deep, relaxing breath that didn’t even hurt his ribs as much as it should have. “Steve,” he tried to say, but his body would not cooperate, and all that left his lips was “Ste—ee—e—”

“What did you do to him?” Steve demanded, moving as close to Bucky as he could as soon as the men tied Bucky to a thick, solid metal bar he hadn’t even noticed.

“Nothing permanent,” the handler in charge said with a grin that was—in Bucky’s opinion—far too gleeful for the situation. “It seems the drug affects him a little more than you, Rogers. I suppose the rumors are true: _you_ received the true super-serum.”

“The what?” Steve frowned confusedly, momentarily ceasing his quest to get closer to Bucky.

The handler didn’t say anything to that, merely clucked his tongue and shook his head, mumbling something Bucky could probably have made out if he had been in a better state of mind.

It took him a second to realize Steve was talking again.

“Karpov will never let you get away with this,” Steve insisted hotly, and Bucky privately agreed, because Vasily had been nothing but kind—if a little firm, at times—to them from the moment he’d brought them to the U.S.S.R. in the first place.  

“Karpov?” the handler barked a harsh laugh that sent shivers down Bucky’s spine. “You foolish child, who do you think told us what drugs to give you?”

Bucky felt a little sick.

“He wouldn’t,” Steve muttered from beside him, but he sounded doubtful too.

The handler laughed again, harsh and mocking, turning to make a fairly indistinguishable gesture towards one of the other agents. “Bring him in.”

He turned back towards them just as the guards brought in another prisoner, and Bucky had to blink a few times to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating. Steve’s quiet gasp beside him told him everything he needed to know, though.

Gabriel Jones.

Beaten so badly Bucky might not have recognized him if not for the distinctive uniform—he’d worn the same thing the last time he’d seen him, well over two years ago.

When he and Steve had deliberately let the Americans go against orders.

Oh.

 _Oh_.

“Fancy meeting you boys here,” Jones said when he caught sight of them, smiling a bloody smile. “Pegs is gonna kill me, but at least I found you. Dum Dum owes me five dollars.”

There was a thin edge of fear to his bravado, but his _courage_ was unmistakable, even in the face of what he must know was certain death.

He would die… for _them_?

“There will be no need for that, Mr. Jones,” the handler said cruelly, taking the gun from one of the men’s hands and aiming it directly at Jones’ head. “You will not be walking out of here. You were merely evidence we needed to ensure these two _бесполезные_ _дети_ got what they deserved.”

Jones’ eyes were filled almost entirely with fear—but there was _still_ courage there, even now, moments from death—and Bucky wished dearly that he could’ve felt a little more intoxicated still, because he couldn’t… _he couldn’t_ look this man in the eye when they shot him.

This was what they’d done to his mother and father, he remembered.

He couldn’t see it again.

“Remember what we told you boys,” Jones said quickly, steel in his voice. “This is your proof.”

Bucky closed his eyes a second before the gunshot rang out, loud and deafening, disorienting him so much he almost felt like he’d been the one to get hit. He heard Jones’ body hit the ground with a loud, sickening _thud_ , and he had to actively fight back the urge to vomit—although if the handler had been closer, he might not have held back.

“ _That_ is what happens when you betray us,” the handler said coldly. “Now we can’t outright kill you, the serum is too valuable, but there are other ways of… _punishing_ you for your betrayal.”

Bucky looked up at the man, finding him far closer than he had been a second ago, so close he just barely blocked Bucky’s view of Jones’ body on the floor. “Don’t worry though, we’ll make sure you wish you got the same swift death your dear Mr. Jones did.”

Bucky glared at the man, mentally calculating the ways he could take him out without a way to break out of his chains. “We’re not afraid of you,” he said calmly, because he _wasn’t_.

The handler laughed again and shook his head. “You will be. You see those?” He leaned close and gestured to the large tubes Bucky had seen earlier. “Those are made to put someone on cryostasis.” He grinned a mean grin and added, “It won’t kill you, but it’s not going to be pleasant either. I’d say goodbye, if I were you. I doubt they’ll ever wake you up at the same time again.”

He laughed, shaking his head and stood, returning to where the other soldiers stood. “Of course, not that it would matter. It’s not like they’re going to let you remember anything.”

“You can’t take him out of my head,” Steve said bravely— _foolishly_ —tilting his head up and clenching his jaw in a way that drove Bucky _mad_. Unfortunately, it seemed Steve’s innate inability to shut his goddamned mouth when he needed to seemed to drive the handler mad too—he backhanded Steve across the face, as though it was nothing, and Bucky’s blood _boiled_.

He strained against the manacles, his breath trembling and each muscle in his body clenched, the metal groaning beneath the pressure before it abruptly _snapped_.

The entire room _froze_ , and Bucky’s eyes found Steve’s.

A slow smile spread across Steve’s face and Bucky felt his own lips twitch upwards to match Steve’s sudden joy. Steve _pulled_ , and only an instant later the metal snapped like thin paper. He pushed to his feet and set himself shoulder-to-shoulder with Bucky, upper lip curled up into a snarl.

The handlers froze, caught between the urge to flee, the urge to draw, and the urge to stand their ground—all driven by a deep and primal fear.

Of _them_.

They would have remained loyal—they would not have stood against Karpov—but this… the threat of separation had been uttered before, but it had never been so serious, and Bucky would not stand for it.

There was a reason he was one of Department X’s most effective agents.

There was a reason Karpov had never deemed to separate him and Steve before.

Perhaps these men needed a reminder.

——

 **HYDRA Siberian Facility, Siberia, U.S.S.R.  
19 June** **1953**

 **Steve** **Rogers**

His legs burned with the muscle strain of running for a full day, his arm _ached_ where they had stabbed him and his lungs _screamed_ in pain every time that he took a breath. He guessed their advanced healing must be slowed down by the drug they’d been given—Bucky hadn’t said much since they’d made it out of the base they’d been taken to, but Steve could tell that he was shaken and hurt too.

He thanked their lucky stars that there had been enough winter gear for both of them, because the further they sprinted from the base, the colder the weather got.

“I need to stop,” Steve admitted quietly. “I need a break.”

He slowed to a stop, swaying in place as he tried not to think too hard on the implications of everything that had happened in the past few days. They hadn’t been covering their tracks as well as they could have, and Steve’s sleeve was still dripping blood—his own or someone else’s, he was unsure—as was the knife he hadn’t realized he was still clutching.

He looked at Bucky for the first time since they’d escaped, and a shuddering breath fell from his lips at the look in Bucky’s eyes—he hadn’t seen the other boy look this terrified since the first time he’d been taken to Zola’s lab in Auschwitz.

“Fucking hell,” he choked, lurching forward to wrap his arms around Bucky, gun and knife and all, bloodstains be damned. “They tried to kill us. I can’t believe they tried to kill us. I can’t believe Karpov—that he would’ve—”  

“It’s like they said,” Bucky mumbled blearily. “They warned us, and we didn’t listen.”

Steve blinked away the sudden and unexpected burn of tears in his eyes when he recalled the warning the dark-skinned man—Gabriel Jones, he reminded himself, a name he would never allow himself to forget—had given them with his very last words. The man had died trying to help them escape a regime so oppressive and manipulative they hadn’t even realized what was happening until it was too late.

“I brought his tags,” Steve admitted quietly, resting his head against Bucky’s shoulder. 

“We should find her,” Bucky remarked quietly. “The woman. Peggy Carter. She loved him a lot.” He pulled back a little, resting his forehead against Steve’s. Steve allowed himself a moment to get lost in the stormy blue-grey of Bucky’s eyes and nodded. “They were like us,” Bucky continued. “She deserves to know—if… if it was me, I’d want to know.”

Steve swallowed thickly.

He didn’t want to think about how close they’d come to that.

“She said she could help us,” Steve remembered, a frisson of hope blooming in his chest. “She can help us stay safe from them.”

Bucky nodded, before darting in to press a light kiss to Steve’s lips.

“Let’s go then.”

Steve nodded shakily.

“Let’s.”

**FIN.**

 

Check out Verbalatte's Tumblr Post of the Artwork!

 

 

**German**

| 

**English**  
  
---|---  
  
**_Arbeiter aller Länder: Vereinigt euch!_**

| 

Workers of the world, unite!  
  
**_Wir wollen Freiheit, keine Sklaverei!_**

| 

We want freedom, not slavery!  
  
 

**Russian**

| 

**English**  
  
---|---  
  
**_бесполезные_** **_дети_**

| 

Useless children  
  
**_паучки_**

| 

Spiderlings  
  
**_солдат_**

| 

Soldier  
  
**_капитан_**

| 

Captain  
  
**_полковник_**

| 

Colonel  
  
_**Я готов отвечать**_

| 

Ready to comply  
  
**_товарищ_**

| 

Comrade  
  
**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you to Juulna and Verbalatte, without whom this all would not have come to exist.


End file.
